


Winter Comes For the House of Windsor

by Wardown



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Margaery Tyrell, Dark Daenerys, Dark Margaery, F/M, Game of Thrones/House of Windsor crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23327353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wardown/pseuds/Wardown
Summary: This an AU set in a version of modern Britain.  Following the murder of the heir to the Throne,  Joffrey Windsor, and the subsequent death of Queen Cersei, Joffrey's brother, Tommen and his wife, Margaery Tyrell, become King and Queen of England and Scotland.  Sansa Stark, Duchess of Clarence, is the widow to Joffrey.  Lady Daenerys Targaryen is Lady in Waiting to Queen Margaery.  Philip Qyburn is a leading Queen's Counsel.  Pycelle is Archbishop of Canterbury.  Gregor Clegane is a Commander in the Metropolitan Police Force.
Relationships: King Tommen/Queen Margaery King Tommen/Sansa Stark
Comments: 143
Kudos: 13





	1. Winter Has Come

For the thousandth time, the King wished he had never been born. A chill wind moaned outside the windows of his study, making them rattle in their frames. He rose and walked to the window, staring out into the gardens of Buckingham Palace, lost in earnest and dreadful thought. The palace grounds were blanketed in snow, snow which had not ceased to fall for weeks now. The freezing weather matched the mood inside. 

He heard a polite cough behind him. One of his equerries. The man was insufferable. He turned to face him. "Am I to be the first King in five hundred years to condemn his wife to death?" 

"Your wife, the Queen, faces trial, your Majesty, on charges of murder and treason. The legislation merely requires your assent." 

"A King can withhold assent to a Bill." 

"With respect, Your Majesty" (the man's tone implied that he had none) "By convention, the monarch does not withhold assent to any Bill that has been passed by both Houses of Parliament. The Commons has voted to impeach Her Majesty. This Bill merely determines the sentence, should be found guilty." 

"And what if she's innocent?" 

"Then of course, she will go free. But, were you to impede due process, that would be taken as a sign of Her Majesty's guilt, and your own complicity." 

That was true enough. Six months ago, his brother, Prince Joffrey, and his children, had been murdered when a private jet carrying them abroad had exploded in mid-air. At the time, Islamist terrorists had been blamed. His mother, Queen Cersei, long ailing due to alcoholism and drug addiction, had succumbed to grief and passed away a few weeks later. He was therefore King, and Margaery, his lovely young wife, Queen. Quite unexpectedly. Still reeling in turmoil from the death of his mother and brother, things had turned a million times worse when he had been informed that his wife was suspected of having planned the bombing herself. She had been confined to her quarters, while Parliament deliberated. The Commons had voted to impeach her, meaning she would face trial in the Lords, before a jury of Peers. Much worse, under huge public pressure, Parliament had voted to suspend the operation of the Human Rights Act, and to reinstate capital punishment for treason. It was this Bill that awaited his signature. He supposed they would send to Jamaica or Singapore for an executioner. The thought of Margaery being led from a condemned cell at dawn, hooded, pinioned, and then hanged, before being buried in an unmarked grave, made him want to vomit! And, oh God, what about their young daughter, Myrcella? Three years old, and crying for the mother she was forbidden to see! 

He knew his wife was innocent. She must be! The Rose of Highgarden, beautiful, fresh-faced and innocent. The public had gone wild when he had married her, four years ago. She charmed rich and poor alike, gracing official banquets, and working for numerous charities, all dedicated to the less fortunate of his subjects. It couldn't be a sham, surely. She had enchanted him the moment they met, introducing him to the pleasures of her bed within a fortnight. It had been whirlwind romance, and they had married within half a year. Twelve months later, she had given birth to their daughter, a delightful girl. What would happen when she learned her mother had been hanged? If she was hanged. No, that was impossible. His wife was no traitor. 

And yet, and yet, he had learned that she and her family possessed a steely ambition. Her father and brother were like leeches, seeking the titles and estates they believed their due. And, over time, he had come to learn that Margaery resented the fact she would never be Queen. She had always enjoyed Shakespeare. In bed one night she had declaimed; 

_"Come, you spirits that asist murderous thoughts, make me less like a woman and more like a man, and fill me from head to toe with deadly cruelty! Thicken my blood and clog up my veins so I won’t feel remorse, so that no human compassion can stop my evil plan or prevent me from accomplishing it! Come to my female breast and turn my mother’s milk into poisonous acid, you murdering demons, wherever you hide, invisible and waiting to do evil! Come, thick night, and cover the world in the darkest smoke of hell, so that my sharp knife can’t see the wound it cuts open, and so heaven can’t peep through the darkness and cry, “No! Stop!”._

____

At the time, he thought this was some black joke on her part. If only it was!

____

"Your Majesty. " The creature interrupted this thoughts again. "You already have an heir. And were your wife found guilty, there are many women, fair and fertile, who would long to marry the King of England and provide you with children. The Duchess of Clarence, for example." 

____

"Get out! " he screamed.

____

The man bowed unctuously, and departed. Duchess Sansa! Yes, he knew the woman desired him. Or perhaps, desired the crown that her husband's death had denied her. He knew too, that she hated his wife. By the merest chance, she had been unable to board the plane that had blown up in mid air. She had never believed the story that Islamists were responsible. She had dug around for evidence, and eventually, had dug out a security officer who had unexpectedly left the plane, just before take off. Under close questioning, he had confessed to planting the bomb that destroyed the jet, and had begun naming names, in the hope of saving his own life. One witness had led to another, and eventually, Margaery had been named as the instigator of the bombing. Before long, she would be facing trial for her life. Oh God! Who would want to be King? If only he were a private citizen! He walked to his desk, and signed the fucking Bill. Then, he rushed to the toilet to throw up. 

Elsewhere in the palace, the Queen enjoyed a glass of sherry with her Lady in Waiting, Lady Daenerys, as they awaited the arrival of her barrister, Philip Qyburn. She had no doubt that her husband would give his assent to the legislation. He had no choice if he were not be thought complicit. Damn Sansa! The woman had always hated and distrusted her, even as she gave the impression that butter would never melt in her mouth. The Starks were dowdy, down at heel, lacking all of the glamour of her own family. She had outshone the woman, possessing a rock star quality that her rival lacked. To be honest, she had been doing the House of Windsor a favour when she decided to rid the world of her brother-in-law and his family, not that her persecutors would see things in that light. It was rotten luck that the wretched woman should come down with food poisoning on the day of her flight. 

"I know that you are innocent, your Majesty" murmured Daenerys, taking her hand in her own. She saw that the girl had been crying. God, she was a simpleton! A devout Catholic, educated by nuns, she knew little or nothing of the world. Her father Aerys had been one of the vilest criminals in modern British history. A very wealthy Earl, it turned out that he enjoyed kidnapping young women, raping them, and then burning them alive behind closed doors at his country home. He had taken his own life in prison, leaving his family disgraced, and bankrupted by civil lawsuits from the families of his victims. For some reason, her mother had taken pity on the girl, taking her into their own home, and arranging for her education at a convent school. Worse, she had to make the silly girl a part of her household, when she married Prince Tommen. The young woman's piety, her determination to see the best in everyone, grated on her at times. Still, perhaps it could be turned to her advantage. 

"You are so kind to believe in me. It's a blessing to know that I have one friend, in my hour of need. Will you pray for me?" 

"I've been praying for you every day." 

"You're so dear to me, sweet Daenerys. " She took the girl in her arms, feeling her shaking, as she gently cried. 

Raised a Catholic herself, Margaery had had to convert to the Church of England when she married Tommen. Why the House of Windsor made this pretence of piety was a bit of a mystery to her. So far as she could tell, the vast majority of them had the sexual appetites of goats. Some of them even favoured boys, although she doubted if her husband was one of them. Of course, she had long ago worked out that religion was just a load of flim flam and superstition. All this nonsense about blessing the poor and the weak. The poor and weak were just a bloody nuisance, and the world would be a better place if they just did as they were told. Magic on the other hand? Magic was real. She had discovered that as an undergraduate, at Exeter University. One night, she had been out to a hunt ball at Ugbrooke House. In the small hours, she had left, to drive back to Topsham, where her parents had bought her a cottage on the sea front. As she drove across country, her car engine suddenly faltered. Cursing, she had got out, with a torch, and lifted the bonnet. Suddenly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She turned, and there were three of the ugliest women she had ever encountered, bag women she supposed. 

"All Hail, Margaery Tyrell" cried the first.

"All Hail to thee, Margaery Tyrell, Duchess of Suffolk" 

The third sank to her knees, before crying out 

"All Hail. All Hail to thee Margaery Tyrell, that shall be Queen of England and Scotland hereafter." 

She had called out to them, but they had vanished into the darkness, as swiftly as they came. And her car engine had immediately restarted. She had known she was destined for greatness at that point. She would beat the trial. All her life she had known, _When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die."_

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Margaery is quoting Lady Macbeth, at Act 1 Scene 5 of Macbeth.
> 
> 2\. Ugbrooke House is a popular venue for balls, some miles from Exeter. Topsham is a popular place of residence with wealthy students. Exeter University has quite a high proportion of students from very wealthy backgrounds.
> 
> 3\. Capital punishment for treason was abolished in 1998. The European Convention on Human Rights, on which the Human Rights Act 1998 is based, prohibits capital punishment in peacetime.
> 
> 4\. Impeachment has fallen out of use in English law. For the purposes of this story, I am reviving it in order to try Queen Margaery.


	2. Interview with the Queen

"Let the Bright Seraphim, their bright uplifted trumpets blow" hummed Philip Qyburn QC, as his taxi drove through the gates of Buckingham Palace. He attended a charity performance of Handel's Samson, the night before, at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, and the music was superlative. The taxi stopped, and he alighted, walking towards the main building, with his pupil, where he would interview the Queen, in her chambers. A silver-haired, avuncular man of late middle age, he has made a formidable reputation for himself at the Bar. His career has been one of unbroken success, ever since he made his name by securing the acquittal of the former leader of the Liberal Party, charged with conspiring to murder his gay lover, after the man attempted to blackmail him. The evidence against his client was overwhelming, but still he had insinuated to the jury that the blackmailer deserved everything he got, after describing the man as "a liar, a parasite, a sponger, a whiner, a pervert." It appeared the jury agreed and found the defendant not guilty in under an hour. Further triumphs followed. He remembers with especial fondness defending a popular newspaper which was sued for libel after printing a story about an actress performing fellatio on her boyfriend in a lay-by. How fiercely he had denounced her "depraved sexual appetites" and "unnatural desires" before the jury, who had dismissed her claim with contempt. Nor has his success been confined to the courtroom. For some years, he edited Smith & Hogan; he was past chairman of the Criminal Bar Association, and Emeritus Professor of Criminal Law at Cambridge University. He runs a charity for orphaned children. One of those orphans is now his pupil, Bronn Stokeworth. 

He is proud of his pupil, who seems of similar ilk to himself. He has often stated in his lectures, that "sometimes the best and most successful cases never make it to court." He has confided his true opinion to Bronn in private, that "the mainstay and wellspring of the legal profession is being a complete and utter bastard." Men and women in trouble know that Qyburn can almost always help them - so long as they can afford his generous fees. Creditors who have long despaired of payment from bankrupt companies will discover that they have been reimbursed in full; divorcing spouses, facing bitter custody disputes and battles over property, will find their opponents falling over themselves to be helpful. Defendants facing hostile witnesses, will suddenly discover that their accusers cannot remember key events, or even recant their testimony in full; or fall victim to tragic accidents; or simply vanish without trace. Bronn and his fellow orphans have proved invaluable over the years, in achieving such out of court triumphs. It was inevitable, he supposed, that Queen Margaery would reach out to him in her hour of need. Every legal triumph he has enjoyed so far would pall by comparison with securing the Queen's acquittal.

Guardsmen led the pair of them to the Queen's chambers, and knocked respectfully. "Enter" came the reply, and the door was opened by a most striking young woman, with silver-blonde hair, and eyes that were almost purple in colour. She ushered them in, as Queen Margaery rose from her chair, and shook the hands of them both. "Mr. Qyburn, this is Lady Daenerys" who curtsied to them (he suspects that even he could not have secured her father's acquittal. Aerys was such a fool that he had dismissed his legal representatives and attempted to defend himself in Court, with predictable results). 

He bowed politely, as did Bronn before replying "Your Majesty, Lady Daenerys, this is my pupil, Bronn Stokeworth." Lady Daenerys served them both sherry, a fine Manzanilla, he noted with approval. 

The Queen opened the discussion. "As you know, there is a Bill awaiting my husband's assent, which authorises my execution, in the unlikely event that I should be fined guilty. " Daenerys gave a small sob. "My dear, we are discussing sombre matters. If this is too much for you, you may retire." Daenerys shook her head and composed herself. "My understanding is that the European Convention on Human Rights prohibits the use of capital punishment in peacetime. How can it be lawful for Parliament to reinstate it?" 

"The United Kingdom has been suspended from the Council of Europe, but they have no other sanction. Such was the strength of public feeling, that Parliament had no option but to reinstate capital punishment for treason. As you know, the current Prime Minister is a populist. Whatever his private feelings, he will not defy public opinion on this matter." 

"If I were found guilty, how would I be executed? Lethal injection, beheading, or something worse". 

"Your Majesty would be hanged." There was a sharp intake of breath from Daenerys.

"Let me put this delicately, your Majesty. I do not for one moment dispute that you are innocent of this crime. Nevertheless, the case against you is a strong one. There are multiple witnesses, and their testimony will appear reliable to a jury, even to a jury of Peers." He proceeded to outline the evidence against her in detail, the strengths and weaknesses, as he saw it, of the testimony of each witness. The process took more than an hour. He concluded "The prosecution must prove their case beyond reasonable doubt. I am an expert at raising those doubts, but I would be failing in my duties to you as a client if I were not to raise with you the option of pleading guilty to the charges." 

"And putting my head in a noose?" 

"I believe that a guilty plea, followed by my arguments in mitigation, would see your sentence commuted to life imprisonment." 

"What a charming prospect! Spending the rest of my life being raped around Holloway Prison. Do you know, I think I'd prefer hanging, if it came to it. " Qyburn found it hard to fault her logic. 

"Never plead guilty, Your Majesty!" stated Daenerys firmly.

"In that case, it's settled. We will fight this case, and fight to win. That concludes our business today, but we shall of course meet regularly over the coming days. Your committal hearing has been scheduled a fortnight hence. The Prosecution will argue that you should be remanded in custody but I believe we have a strong case that you be remanded on bail, and remain at the Palace." 

Qyburn and Bronn both rose and bowed, and Daenerys led them out of the room. "Let's walk back to Chambers" suggested Qyburn. 'The snow's stopped falling, and it's a bright, fine, day. " As they walked down the Mall, they discussed the case, free from being overheard. 

'She's guilty as hell, isn't she?" commented Bronn. 

"Please, Bronn, how often have I told you that the presumption of innocence is the golden thread that runs through the English legal system". 

"You've also said that if I believe that, well you've got a bridge to sell me."

"Well, yes, she's guilty as hell, as you put it. But, that's irrelevant." 

"How so?" 

"Many of our country's greatest rulers have been men and women who did not shrink from getting their hands dirty. Think of Alfred the Great, Henry I, Edward I, Henry VIII, Elizabeth I? Hard bastards, every one of them. But, history remembers them fondly. They did what had to be done, for reasons of State. As does Queen Margaery. King Tommen, for all his virtues, is a weak man. I believe that he needs the Queen by his side, if he is to reign successfully. She has the stuff of greatness. No, we shall leave no stone unturned to secure her acquittal, by fair means or foul." 

"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Any comparison between Philip Qyburn and the late George Carman QC is entirely coincidental.
> 
> 2\. Smith & Hogan is the standard textbook of criminal law.
> 
> 3\. Pupil barristers have passed their Bar exams, but then have to train for a period in a set of chambers, before they are fully qualified.
> 
> 4\. Before a trial proper, there is a Committal hearing, at which the Judge determines whether there is a case to answer, and if so, whether the Defendant should be remanded in custody or on bail.


	3. The Duchess and the Queen.

The condemned woman is led in chains, into Charterhouse Square, at dawn. She is clad in sackcloth, her head shaved, in the manner befitting a traitor. A priest accompanies her, offering her the chance to unburden her conscience for the last time. The morning mist is just starting to lift, but a thin drizzle is trickling down, in keeping with the sombre nature of the proceedings. 

The Lord Chief Justice has been waiting here for at least two hours. He has tried the woman and found her guilty. It also falls to him to carry out the sentence prescribed by law. A large crowd has already gathered in the Square ; canny tradesmen have rented out upstairs rooms to the quality, and are supplying them with hearty breakfasts; street vendors are doing a brisk trade, selling bread and cheese, sausages on skewers, roasted chestnuts, apples and oranges, and mugs of ale to the smallfolk and wine to the middling sort in the Square. Jugglers and mummers are performing their tricks, in the hope that the crowd will reward them. She notes with approval, that many of the onlookers had brought their children with them, hoisting them onto their shoulders in order to gain a better view. The crowd is in a jolly mood, the novelty of what is about to happen appealing to their sense of humour. It is not every day, after all, that they get to see a Queen being burned at the stake. At least it will cheer them up, after Brexit and now Coronavirus. 

Sansa Stark, Duchess of Clarence, stands on a raised podium, savouring at last, the destruction of her hated enemy. The wretched woman is chained to the stake, in the centre of the laughing crowd. Soft fruit and dung are flung at her, every direct hit bringing a roar of laughter. She has however, strictly forbidden the use of any missiles. She wants her victim to be spared no minute of suffering. The executioner and his mates pile dampened wood, no higher than Margaery's thighs. She has been promised they can prolong this for at least an hour. She hopes it will feel like an eternity. She raises a hand, and the crowd falls silent.

"Margaery Tyrell, traitor, murderer, false Queen, whore of Highgarden. I sentence you to be burned to ashes for your crimes. May you know the full agony of flame, and depart this world to a yet hotter fire." She nods to the executioner and his mates. They apply brands to the kindling, and the logs gradually catch light. After perhaps fifteen minutes, Margaery's clothing catches light, and she begins to keen wildly. Sansa relishes the woman's screams, until they gradually subside into choked whimpers. Legs burned away, Margaery collapses into the flames, which gradually consume her. But then, something terrible happens. The blackened corpse wriggles free of its chains, and crawls across the ground to the podium on which Sansa stands. She turns to flee, but finds herself rooted to the spot as the creature hauls itself up the steps, before clawing at her legs. She falls to the ground, staring into the smoke-blackened, grinning skull of her arch enemy, whose fingers close relentlessly round her neck, choking her, cutting off all sound....." 

Sansa screamed as she woke, bathed in sweat, and panting heavily. The same dream, night after night. Gradually, she recovered, staring up at the exquisite ceiling of her bedroom at Kensington Palace. She had everything she once dreamed of. Wealth, a palace, a title, and yet it tasted like ashes in her mouth. What could compensate for the murder of her husband, and her son and daughter? She took an anti-depressant with a glass of water, and rose, making for the bathroom, where she took a shower. On returning, she chose a navy business suit, and descended for breakfast in the conservatory. 

"Morning sis, you look like shit" said Arya, grinning. She can talk, all leathers, and tattoos, and today sporting a nose ring, wolfing down the eggs and bacon and tomatoes left for them by her manservant, Burrell. "You're not coming to Court, dressed like that!" she snapped. 

"I'll come to Court, dressed any way I like. It's not like I'm the one on trial." 

"Please Arya, just for once in your life, try not to embarrass me. You're a member of the Royal Family, for God's sake!" 

"Alright, just this once. I've got a black dress upstairs, and I'll remove this just for now." She took out the nose ring, and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Arya, is a constant source of embarrassment to her. The drug-taking, the marriage and divorce over 48 hours in Las Vegas, the constant trips in and out of rehab, the string of lovers of either sex paraded across the tabloids. "I'm as eager as you to see that bitch go down."

A short while later, they were being driven in their Bentley along Kensington Gore, and then into Knightsbridge. The driver turned into Grosevnor Place, heading for Parliament Square. The Committal Hearing was due to take place today at the House of Lords. As they approached Parliament Square, they slowed to a crawl, such were the crowds, spilling into the road. It was snowing steadily, but that had not deterred people from turning out. There seemed to be some commotion up ahead. 

"Fuck the Queen, fuck the Queen" she heard the chanting. Well, that was to the good. "We'll get out" she told the driver. 

"Is that wise Ma'am?" queried the driver. 

"Oh, I think we've nothing to worry about. They'd tear her apart. " 

As she and Arya were recognised, the crowds cheered them, and made way. Never one to miss a PR opportunity, she shook hands, and kissed members of the public. As they approached the Palace of Westminster, she turned to give an impromptu speech. "Good people, we are here today to see justice being done. I know that my poor husband and children would welcome your devotion and love. Rest assured, wherever they are now, they know that you love them." The crowd cheered. Her hated rival had just been driven into the Palace, under guard. Amused she saw a group of nuns from Westminster Cathedral, holding up a large banner, reading "Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out." Several of them were ringing handbells, proclaiming "Shame, shame on the sinner." She greeted them, and they curtsied to her. "I am sister Unella, " said the leader. She glowered, before pronouncing, "Hanging is too good for her. Back in the day, her kind would have been sent to the stake. She is a witch, and the scriptures tell us "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." 

Sansa was slightly taken aback, but you take your support where you find it. "Thank you so much for your devotion. Rest assured, we do the Lord's work today." 

She entered the Palace with Arya, shaking off the snow, and armed police guided her to Westminster Hall, where the committal was due to take place. 

Taking their places among the dignitaries, she stared with loathing at her hated enemy in the dock. The face of an angel, and the soul of a demon, she thought. The woman seemed not to have a care in the world. Dressed in a grey Oscar de la Renta business suit that must have been worth thousands, every hair in its immaculate place. Well, justice would come for her eventually! Oh, and that little snake, Lady Daenerys, sitting to one side of the dock. Silver-haired, purple-eyed, innocent looking. She knew her sort. Pure, pious, gentle, on the outside, but inside she knew, there lurked the spirit of a hypocrite. 

She watched as the woman swore an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And then pleaded Not Guilty to all charges. Why doesn't God strike her down for her lies, she wondered? The lead barrister for the Prosecution then rose to argue that Margaery Tyrell be remanded in custody at Bronzefield, pointing to the gravity of the charges against her, that would in the case of any other Defendant, warrant being kept under the strictest guard. At last, counsel for the Defence rose to argue to the contrary. She knew of Qyburn's reputation, of course, and grudgingly, she had to admit he was worth every penny of the fortune she must be paying him. He cited the precedents of Katherine Howard and Anne Boleyn, pointing out that both women had been treated with dignity during the course of their trials; yes, the charges were of the utmost gravity, but there were never less than two companies of guards stationed at Buckingham Palace, the elite force of the British Army. What possible risk could there be of escape. Finally, unless and until she was convicted, she was Queen of England and Scotland. There was no way she could be sent to the same prison as terrorists and sex offenders, who would be sure to maltreat her. To Sansa's anger, the Lord Chief Justice finally agreed with Qyburn, setting bail at five million pounds and fixing the date of the trial eight weeks hence. 

As Margaery left the dock, she suddenly turned and approached her and Arya. "Sweet sister, I feel your pain" she said. "My heart was broken by the horrors inflicted on your poor family. When my innocence has been proved, I should love nothing more than to renew our dear friendship". 

Sansa leaned forward, before hissing "Call me sister one more time, and I'll strangle you in your sleep!" 

"Monster!" muttered Daenerys, staring daggers at her. 

"Please, sweetling, she is overwrought. Any wife and mother would be, in her position." The two made off together. Were the pair of them lovers? Nothing would surprise her. 

She said nothing to Arya as they were driven back to Kensington Palace, only to be greeted by Burrell, the last person she wished to see. "Your Highness" he whined "you forgot your hat and gloves." She picked up a priceless vase and hurled it at him, even as he dodged aside, and it shattered into a thousand pieces. "Get out of my sight" she snarled, before retiring to her bedroom, a prey to her thoughts. 

" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Historically, many burnings took place in Charterhouse Square, Smithfield.
> 
> 2\. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" is from Exodus 22:18.
> 
> 3\. Westminster Cathedral (not to be confused with Westminster Abbey) is the principal Roman Catholic centre of worship in England.
> 
> 4\. HMP Bronzefield is the principal maximum security women' prison in England.


	4. The Majesty of the Law

Commander Gregor Clegane of the Metropolitan Police looked out of the front passenger window of the Queen's car, at the scenes in Parliament Square, with disgust. _What's happened to this country? This is England, not Baghdad. Yet I could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. _As the Queen's motorcade drove slowly out of the Palace of Westminster, the crowds began shouting abuse. "Whore", "traitor" "Cunt" were some of the least objectionable terms being bandied about. "Fuck the Queen, fuck the Queen, fuck the Queen" chanted a section of the mob. One man was holding a wooden pole, with a model of the Queen's head stuck on then end of it. Supporters of the Socialist Workers Party were bellowing abuse through loud-hailers. Two women were holding a huge banner, reading "Hanged by the Neck Until Dead", and depicting Queen Margaery dangling from the end of a rope. One man was even parading up and down dressed as the Grim Reaper, and shaking his scythe at the Queen, as he spotted her car. Another man dropped his trousers, yelling at the Queen to suck his cock. He was pleased to see two of his men racing over to arrest the pervert.__

_Give the bastard a kicking for me_

___All leave had been cancelled for his officers, and more police drafted in from forces in the Home Counties. Despite the freezing weather, for days, huge crowds had gathered in central London, demonstrating and chanting abuse at the Queen. Things had turned very ugly a couple of days ago, when hundreds of them had marched up the Mall, proclaiming their determination to bring back the Queen's head on a pole. God knows what would have happened, had they reached the palace. The Guards would surely have opened fire on them, and there would have been a bloodbath. His officers had almost been overwhelmed and only repeated charges on horseback had dispersed the mob. The courts had worked overtime over the past forty eight hours, handing down exemplary sentences to the rioters. Inevitably, the need to keep order in Central London meant that many of the rougher parts of the capital had been left without police. Crime rates had soared as a result. Copycat riots had also broken out in Dalston, Peckham and Tottenham, anywhere really where the police struggled to enforce the law. In some places, shopkeepers had formed squads of vigilantes to protect their property. In one particularly nasty incident, rioters had set fire to a building housing Eastern European workers, who had only escaped by the skin of their teeth. There was talk of the capital being placed under complete lockdown, backed up by the army, although the Prime Minister was known to be unhappy with this. Thank God for the freezing weather, otherwise London really would go up in flames!___

___Before the Committal, he had met the Queen, in order to explain the steps he would take to protect her, as she travelled to and from the Palace of Westminster. He had told her he would accompany her at all times. He feared that she was in fact guilty, but all his life, he had believed that even the worst of criminals deserved a fair trial. The idea of a her being torn apart by a mob, no doubt after a round of rape and torture beforehand, sickened him. Not that she seemed concerned. As ever she looked immaculate in her grey business suit, and black Loboutins, beautifully coiffeured and made up. She had stepped into the car taking her to her Committal, as if she were going to a charity function , and had not a care in the world. His attention returned to the scenes in the Square. Bizarrely, a group of nuns had arrived from Westminster Cathedral. They were chanting, "Shame, Shame, Shame on the Sinner", and ringing handbells. A devout Roman Catholic himself, he couldn't help but feel embarrassed at the antics of these co-religionists._ _ _

___Not that the Queen didn't have some defenders. A few hundred members of the Womens' Equality Party were demonstrating in her favour, claiming that she was a victim of patriarchy. He'd heard their leader on LBC last night, explaining that "Margaery Tyrell is a passionate campaigner for the rights of women, the LGBT community, and for people of colour. Of course, the British Establishment will not tolerate an intelligent, socially just, young woman as Queen. They will do anything, tell any lies, to bring her down. " The Council of Europe had also weighed in on her behalf, suspending British membership of the organisation. There was even talk of the European Union breaking off negotiations after Brexit, in protest at the restoration of capital punishment. Clegane watched as the Queen's motorcade left Parliament Square and passed into Victoria Street, and let out a long sigh of relief._ _ _

___Back in his chambers, at Stone Buildings, Lincolns Inn, Philip Qyburn discussed the day's events with Bronn._ _ _

___"A most satisfactory outcome, wouldn't you say?"_ _ _

___"She's still got to find five million pounds."_ _ _

___"She and her family have the money."_ _ _

___"But what good will it do her in the end?"_ _ _

___"A great deal of good, Bronn, but we shall need the help of our "Little Birds" (his nickname for the orphans whom his charity cared for)."_ _ _

___"Mr. Qyburn, there are six witnesses scheduled to give evidence against her. I'm thinking, the case against her would collapse if those six slags were no longer in the land of the living."_ _ _

___"It would indeed, and my thoughts initially ran along those lines. Still, one witness might disappear. Accidents do happen. But six accidents? No, that could not be explained away. Besides, they will all be kept under very close guard. The security forces will be taking no chances. Eliminating witnesses is not really possible in this case. "_ _ _

___"So, what's your plan?" Qyburn outlined his suggestions, and Bronn mulled it over for a while. "Tricky, sir, very tricky" and the timescale is bloody tight. But, not impossible, I think"___

 _ _ _Qyburn handed him a small leather package. "There's a small fortune here, in uncut diamonds. Tell our little birds to consider it as a retainer. Be in no doubt, Bronn, we are committing treason. We could both end up going to the gallows. But, if we win, the rewards will be infinite. Wealth, titles, kudos, anything we want. We are playing for the highest stakes. We are playing the only game that matters, The Game of Thrones._ _ _

__

__

__

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Womens' Equality Party is a feminist political party in the United Kingdom
> 
> 2\. LBC is a radio station in London.


	5. There is More Joy in Heaven

_You are a lioness. The lioness does not concern herself with the opinions of sheep,” _Margaery's father has often counselled her. Good advice, but it was hard not be shaken by the fury of the crowds outside the Palace of Westminster. She realised they would do terrible things to her if they caught hold of her.__

The crowds were scum, no doubt of that, but dangerous scum. For some reason, the nuns angered her the most. _They preach morality and chastity to the rest of us, ring their handbells, and shout about “shame”, while they spend every night up each others’ shrivelled cunts _. As her car pulled out into Parliament Square, she’d heard one particularly sanctimonious bitch calling out at her to repent of her crimes and sins, and she’d made herself a promise;__

____

______

__My face will be the last thing you’ll see before you die

____

___But, it was essential she kept calm. She had been worried when the prosecutor had argued that she be remanded in custody. In point of fact, he had made a good case. She had been thinking increasingly of fleeing the country. Fortunately, Qyburn had proved more than up to the challenge. His bills were astronomical, but he was worth every penny. In fact, he was worth more. After the hearing, he had briefly outlined his plans to her. It was risky obviously, and she’d made several suggestions of her own. But, it offered her something better than flight, the chance to keep her position and privileges, and better still, to destroy her enemies once and for all. What was it that Genghis Khan had said? “Man’s greatest joy is to slaughter his enemies, to crush them and drive them before him, and to listen to the lamentations of their women.” A fine sentiment indeed, but she wouldn’t leave her enemies’ women alive to lament them.___

___She had to start winning over her captors. She glanced over to Commander Clegane, who was sitting in the back of the car with her, as they returned to the Palace. He was one possibility. Not by trying to seduce him, or anything so obvious. No, the man was a devout Catholic, as she had once been. She turned to Clegane. “Commander, Are you a Christian?”_ _ _

___“I hope I am, your Majesty”, he replied._ _ _

___“I fear I am the worst of sinners”, she murmured. “How?”._ _ _

___“I betrayed my faith. You must know what University is like. An endless round of casual sex, drugs, every form of depravity. I was a part of that world. But, that was not the worst of it. I am guilty of far more than that, and now God is punishing me as I deserve. “_ _ _

___Clegane looked shocked. “Your Majesty, if you are referring to the case, you cannot confess to me. You must speak to your legal team”._ _ _

___She sighed “Oh, Commander, I am innocent of those charges, but God will condemn me, because I have done far worse. I am an apostate. I abandoned the faith of my fathers, for worldly ambition. I forsook God and all his saints, and the Blessed Virgin, and I was baptised a Protestant, so that I could marry a Prince. I have committed the sin against the Holy Spirit, which can never be forgiven.” She buried her head in her hands, and began to sob gently._ _ _

___Clegane gently touched her shoulder “Your Majesty, perhaps we should continue this discussion when we reach your chambers.” The Queen composed herself. They reached the entrance to the Palace. Guards were holding back the inevitable demonstrators, this time chanting “Blood on your hands, Margaery , blood on your dress! Hang by the neck Margaery, hang for your crimes!” They passed through the gates, and safely reached the Palace._ _ _

___The Queen, Daenerys, and Clegane walked to her chambers, flanked by police officers. Clegane dismissed them when they reached the Queen’s drawing room. “I have matters to discuss with her Majesty. I shall call you when I need you.”_ _ _

___Daenerys asked “May I bring your Majesty a sherry?”_ _ _

___“Thank you. Would you like one, Commander?”_ _ _

___“My thanks, but I cannot drink on duty.” Daenerys handed the Queen a glass. “Please stay, Daenerys, I need your help.”_ _ _

___They settled down in armchairs. “So, your Majesty, you are concerned about the state of your soul? “_ _ _

___“I am. Commander, Daenerys, I sinned terribly when I abandoned my faith for a religion which I do not believe in.”_ _ _

___“Forgive me for interrupting, your Majesty” interjected Daenerys. “The Holy Father has ruled that Anglicans are not damned for their beliefs.”_ _ _

___Clegane nodded “Pope John Paul confirmed it.”_ _ _

___“But my reasons for converting were insincere” cried the Queen. “I did it to gain wealth and power! How can our Saviour forgive that?”_ _ _

___“The Lord can forgive all sins, your Majesty” insisted Daenerys._ _ _

___“It’s true “ said Glegane. “Why don’t we pray together? “ The Queen nodded, and the three of them knelt on the carpet. Together, they spoke the Prayer of Contrition "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin." In a soft voice, tears running down her face, the Queen murmured “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” Daenerys stared at her transfixed . “Oh, your Majesty, I’m so pleased for you. The Lord loves a repentant sinner. Would you care to sing a hymn?” The Queen nodded, and together, they sang "Faith of Our Fathers”. At the end of it, the Queen said “I feel refreshed, as if a great weight has been lifted from my soul. I cannot thank you enough, my dearest friends. Will you visit me again, Commander, to pray together with me and Daenerys?”_ _ _

___“It will be my very great honour” replied the Commander. “I must return to duty now, your Majesty, but I shall return.”_ _ _

___A remarkable woman, thought Clegane, as he left the Palace. Can she truly be guilty of murder and treason? He had met thousands of criminals in his time, some of whom would swear they were pure as the driven snow. But, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the Queen was sincere. She had a guilty conscience, but not, he was sure, the guilty conscience of a traitor. Rather, it was the guilty conscience of a repentant apostate. But, the criminal law was not concerned with spiritual offences, even if the Holy Spirit was. And while the Holy Spirit might condemn her, the Blessed Virgin was full of mercy and would surely forgive her. She had shown, in the months after her marriage, that she was a good woman. The poor, and those dogged by misfortune had adored her. But, mobs were fickle, and they would gladly tear her apart now. He resolved that she should not die, so fair, so innocent, so alone. As he drove away from the Palace, he determined that he would save her. ._ _ _

____


	6. An Encounter on Hampstead Heath

A few hours later, Bronn was shivering in the twilight. Not from fear of course, he felt none. But, this damn cold really got into your bones. He trod carefully through the snowy woods, cursing as he brushed against a small branch, which discharged its weight of snow down the back of his neck. From time to time, he stood still, looking round for his quarry. Not for the first time, he wondered if this was a fool's errand. He carried a holdall in his left hand, with a dagger in his right sleeve, and another strapped to his right leg. Sod this for a game of soldiers.

But, he'd promised Qyburn, and he owed him. 

From time to time as he trod through the snow, he heard strange rustling noises in the bushes, and even occasional sharp cries. Wealthy men, with their boyfriends, presumably. He knew that the Heath was famous for such behaviour , but surely not in this weather! _Still, I suppose it's the sort of thing that makes you proud to be British! _He remembered Qyburn telling him how as young man, he'd frequently defended prominent public figures who'd got caught with their trousers down, on Hampstead Heath. Fortunately, times were more enlightened now. He trudged on through the woods. At last he came to a deserted clearing, a frozen pond in the centre, and stopped. He put down the holdall, which occasionally twitched and quivered, emitting faint mewing noises. He waited, as the moon rose into the sky, stamping and rubbing his hands together from time to time.__

___Then he saw them. Bronn had frequented some of London's foulest dives and rookeries, and he'd met some real horrors in his time, but he'd never encountered creatures like these. Best to keep up a brave front Three ancient hags, bag-women by appearance, emerged from the woods surrounding the clearing._ _ _

____

Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed", muttered the first, who appeared to possess the worst set of facial boils that Bronn had ever seen. 

____

"Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whined" hissed the next, sporting a hook in place of her left hand and a thick beard. 

____

Harper calls, "tis time, tis time", cried the third, a great bloated sow, with a goitre in the middle of her throat. They were dressed in an assortment of rags. Even in the cold night air, Bronn could smell the reek of them, a pungent mix of unwashed bodies, piss, and decaying flesh. Somewhere between a blocked drain and a compost heap. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes”, chanted the one with the boils. 

____

" Oh wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here? How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world. That has such people in 't!," muttered Bronn. He shared Qyburn’s fondness for the Bard. 

____

"What brings thee here, mortal ?” uttered Hook. “I have a gift that you desire above all else.” He handed her the wriggling holdall. Her eyes gleamed with delight, as she set it down and opened it. “Och, see sisters! A bairn, a wee lassie! We can work great magic with her heart and liver!” “Nay, Morag, “ cried Goitre. “We canna waste this one. We must raise her, to be our daughter, to continue our great work! She leaned over, to pick up the infant, which had started to wail. “Quiet, poppet” she muttered, before undoing the remains of her blouse. Bronn nearly gagged as he saw her suckle the baby at her swollen, unclean, dugs. The one with boils spoke up. “What dost thou desire, Bronn Hardrada,murderer of the weak, betrayer of thy kin, liar, thief, worker of evil.” 

____

"You do know how to flatter a bloke, don't you? A man has to earn a living, and I never killed anyone who didn't have it coming. Betrayer, you call me? I do have standards, you know, and I'd never betray anyone who put their trust in me, save for one condition - if I received a better offer. What do I want? I want to know the future. I want information about the Queen's enemies". To his surprise, the hags knelt reverently, at the mention of the Queen , crying out "All Hail, All Hail, to Her Majesty! All hail to the Daughter of Astaroth, to the Beloved of the Prince of Darkness!" 

____

"So be it, mortal. The enemies of the Queen are our enemies. Her friends are our friends. Come". The hag beckoned Bronn to follow her, and turned back into the woods, with the one named Morag, and Goitre following, still suckling the unfortunate baby. She led him to a dark cave, a human skull nailed above the entrance. Two black wolves guarded the entrance, and rose as they approached, yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. They entered the cave. Bronn was glad that he could see very little in the Stygian gloom. He suspected that eldritch creatures lurked within the cave's depths. The stench, he suspected of dead and decaying things, was indescribable. The witch turned to face him, holding a cup of some nameless liquid. "Drink, my love. Drink, and all shall be revealed to thee." Bronn drank. The concoction was foul, a taste of blood, and wormwood, and aniseed. Bronn reeled, his minds spinning, as he fell to the ground. Before passing out, he felt his clothes being torn away, the witches assaulting his body with their tongues and fingers. He wanted to scream, but there was no sound. 

____

He was an eagle. Soaring over London in the morning. Hovering in the wind, before diving and rising again. The city lay before him, beautiful and wonderful. The cross at the top of St. Paul's gleamed in the Spring sunshine. He circled the dome in flight: , and soared over the Shard, before flying down the length of the sparkling Thames. Yet, wherever he looked, there were signs of war. Men and women did battle in the streets with each other and fell beasts. Flames and smoke billowed out of the Ministry of Defence and the other great buildings in Whitehall. As he flew over Parliament Square, he saw that Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament were smoking, blackened shells. Bodies were strewn everywhere, charred and broken. He flew on, towards Buckingham Palace, before landing among a huge crowd. 

He was a man, once more. standing among a frenzied mob. Stakes and gibbets had been set up in front of the Buckingham Palace. Men, women, and children were being led to execution, as the crowds shrieked abuse. He saw a prominent Minister, writhing on the end of a stake which protruded from his mouth, his face distorted in agony. Other politicians knelt, with their hands bound, fresh stakes being prepared for them. A bishop was forced to mount a scaffold, and kneel before a block. An axe blade flashed through the air, and the man's head rolled away, even as people rushed forward to dip handkerchiefs in his blood. He heard the crowd chanting "You have trampled the asp and the basilisk; the lion and the adder hast thou trodden under foot," as Queen Margaery appeared at the balcony, clad in black and silver, smiling with satisfaction at the scene before her. 

He was a ghost, seen by no one has he slipped through the halls and stairways of the Palace. In a small chamber, he saw a man at a desk, writing a brief note. The man wore a circlet of gold, and seemed familiar. He finished what he was writing, and stared into space for some minutes. Then he stood up, removed the circlet, and placed it carefully on the table. He went to the window, and opened it. For a moment, he stood motionless, then climbed onto the sill, and stepped out into the void. 

He was a boy, in a room with a man wearing a black cowl and mortar board. The man looked familiar, and he recognised him as a prominent member of the House of Lords. He held a long thin cane in his hand. " You know, this is going to hurt me, far more than it will hurt you. Take down your trousers boy, and bend over " The man advanced towards him, looking for all the world like a starving glutton, suddenly presented with a crackling roast. 

He woke, shivering violently. He sat up, on a rug, in the snow, on a hillside, overlooking the City. He realised he was on Parliament Hill. He rose and shook himself down, and began walking briskly downhill. Qyburn needed to know all that he had learned, without delay. 

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Bronn's quotation is taken from The Tempest, Act 5, Scene 1
> 
> 2\. Hardrada is an old Norse word meaning "ruthless".
> 
> 3\. The crowd's chant is taken from Psalm 91.


	7. Another Mother

Donald Pycelle, Archbishop of Canterbury, paced his study at Lambeth Palace unhappily. Apart from the King, I must have the worst job in the country, he thought.

Three days ago, at the hearing in Westminster Hall, he had been appointed the foreman of the jury of Peers who would try the Queen. When he became Archbishop, he'd assumed that his dealings with the Royal Family would be limited to christenings, weddings, and funerals. Anything but this. This was like something out of the Middle Ages; a Queen being tried for murder and treason, who would be hanged if found guilty. Brexit had caused more than enough turmoil, but compared to this? No more than a minor ripple. Whatever the verdict, he was sure that violence would follows. Thirty years ago, a fresh-faced young curate, straight out of theological college, it would never have occurred that he would be involved in the worst constitutional crisis his country had faced in decades. Sighing, he left the building, where a car was waiting to take him to Buckingham Palace. The King needed him. 

He mastered his feelings and made his face impassive, as he entered the King's drawing room. "Your Majesty" he murmured, and gave a court bow. Inwardly, he was shocked at the King's appearance. The poor man looked as if he had neither eaten nor slept for weeks on end. He was hollow-eyed, and the flesh had fallen in round his neck and wrists. His suit seemed two sizes too big for him. "Your face is an open book, my friend" said the King. "Your Majesty?" "Everyone wears the same poker face when they come in to meet me. I know that I look like a scarecrow, but no one would dare say that to me." 

"Your Majesty, no man deserves what you have had to endure. I can only pray for you, and hope that with God's grace, you will pull through this." 

The King remained silent for a while. Then he spoke up. "I need to talk to you about my wife. When we first met, it was love at first sight. She's beautiful, graceful, and compassionate. Or, at least, I thought she was. I couldn't bear to be apart from her. And, the first years of our marriage were wonderful. But now, I fear, I very much fear, that I married a monster. Do you believe in the devil, your Grace? Is that still part of your doctrine? Do you think she might be possessed?" 

"Our Lord and his disciples did not merely heal the sick in body. They cast out evil spirits that had possessed the bodies of men and women, and drove them out of their minds. Are you suggesting we perform an exorcism on the Queen?" 

"Would it be possible? Would it save her from the gallows?"

"I fear that most politicians would view such a proposal with scepticism, your Majesty. We live in an age of unbelief." 

"What do you believe, your Grace?" 

Pycelle remained silent for a while, lost in thought, before saying carefully "I believe that the devil and his minions do exist. They tempt us to evil, and in rare cases, they can take bodily possession. But, in my experience, they only possess those who make themselves vulnerable to them, by summoning them, by means of the diabolical arts." 

"I heard stories about Margaery. Nasty gossip, or so I thought at the time. Of rivals who met strange accidents. Of missing children, and unpleasant rites."

"And, do you have any proof of such things?" 

"No, it's just I fear the truth of them. Everyone who stands in her way seems to meet untimely ends." 

"Really, your Majesty, you cannot discuss such matters with me. I am foreman of the jury which will try her." 

"I know, I know. I just have no one to turn to. Most of my family are dead, and my wife is on trial, and my daughter is too young to know what is going on.....Though I suppose that's a good thing....Imagine if she knew her mother could be a murderer and traitor. " 

"Perhaps, the Duchess Sansa could be of comfort to you. You share many of the same griefs." 

"I fear the Duchess would wish to comfort me in ways which you could never approve of. I don't want to generate unwelcome gossip." 

"Then invite her sister over with her. I know that she is .....wayward. But, no one would suspect scandal in those circumstances. Why not befriend her?"

After Pycelle had left, the King thought about their conversation. On the rare occasions he now spoke to his wife, in her chambers, their conversations were awkward and stilted. The plain truth was he was now terrified of her, terrified of learning the truth about her. There was something just so unnerving about seeing the woman you loved, being accused of the most heinous crimes. And, remaining so calm about it, as if butter would never have melted in her mouth. Was her calmness the behaviour of a woman who knows herself to be innocent, and who thinks she's sure to be acquitted, or was it simply the mask of a gifted liar? In any case, what sort of conversation can you have with someone who might be sentenced to death in a few weeks' time. 

And, what would he say to Sansa? Still, there was only one way to find out. He dialled Kensington Palace. The widow's odious manservant, Burrell, answered and had the gall to tell him, the King!, that "Her Grace is not to be disturbed." To his pleasure, he heard a sudden crack, and a whine of pain from Burrell. Sansa spoke to him, and sounded friendly. Yes, she and Arya would love to join him for lunch. 

The butler had left lunch for the three of them in his drawing room. A delicious salad of lobster, crab, and scallops, with a couple of bottles of Soave in an ice bucket. In better days, he would have fallen on it. These days, even the finest foods were like ashes in his mouth. He rose, as Sansa and Arya were led into the room. Sansa was almost as gaunt as he was, although that in no way diminished her beauty. Rather the reverse, if anything, like the beauty of a candle flame that has almost reached the end of its life. Arya was....well, Arya. Only she would have thought that distressed jeans and a leather jacket were suitable wear for lunch with a King. 

"Your Grace, my Lady" he bowed to them both. "Your Majesty" replied Sansa, curtseying, "but please, shall we not use first names, as family should." "Wotcher" said Arya, raising a hand in greeting. "First, allow me to apologise for the behaviour of my manservant. He has no social graces." 

"He worked for my mother" replied the King. "She loathed him, and was always hoping he'd resign. She was too kind-hearted to sack him. "Mr. Plastic Posh" people used to call him." 

"We get stuck with these people don't we?" replied Sansa, laughing. The King helped them both to food and wine, and they made small talk as they ate, and he found it surprisingly enjoyable. He found he had an appetite for the food and wine after all, and he rang for a third bottle. But then, Sansa surprised him, after a few moments' silence, by saying "We're both victims, aren't we? Both our families have been murdered. That just leaves the three of us" 

"And my wife?" 

"I'm sorry to have to say this, but your wife will not escape justice. This woman deceived you. She deceived all of us. She is cruel, murderous, without pity and without conscience. But, now she's been caught out." 

"Is there anyone who believes she is innocent?" 

"Her barrister maybe, but who can say? A barrister doesn't have to believe his client is innocent, just defend her. And by all accounts, Qyburn has no qualms about taking on the most dreadful clients." T 

The King sighed. "And what will happen to my daughter if Margaery is executed? How can a child grow up without a mother?" 

"Choose another mother". Sansa stood up, and slowly, teasingly, drew off her dress, revealing nothing underneath. The King choked as he gazed on her oiled, supple body, bare and luscious, and his if he wanted it. "Menelaus forgave Helen of Troy, the moment she revealed her perfect breasts to him. What will you do my liege?" Her breasts were indeed, so very perfect. Arya sniggered before saying "Don't worry, I'll keep guard for the pair of you." 

It had been so very long. Sansa held out her hand, and he took it, before leading her into his bedchamber.


	8. Let Justice Be Done, Though the Heavens Fall

The braggart sat with cronies, round a table, in the Marquis of Granby. "Showed her my cock, I did, shoved it at her. Told her to suck it, I did." The others roared and spluttered with laughter. 

"D'you think she wanted to? " asked one of his friends, sniggering.

"Dunno, but I'll bet that bitch has sucked plenty. Anyway, the police went for me. But, I kneed one in the balls, and punched the other in the face, and got away. His friends gave a loud cheer.

"Well, then, the next round's on you, Rorge!" cried one of them, laughing.

"Alright, alright, I know it's my turn." He got up to go to the bar. 

Clegame sat a short distance away, nursing a large Scotch.

"I know you, you bastard" he thought.

He recognised the man from the demonstrations in Parliament Square. Rorge, a great brute of a man, covered in tattoos, possessing a huge beer belly, and missing half his nose. His face was covered with the scars of half a hundred fights. A convicted rapist and thief, and a suspected murderer. 

The brute returned to his friends, with a tray of drinks. "I bet you're right Shagwell. I reckon she was gagging for my dick. She won't be getting fucked by the King right now, nor anyone else. Certainly not when she's in prison."

"Seems a shame to hang her really" mused another "she's not bad looking is she?"

"If you like that type" replied Rorge. "But y'know" he paused to let out a huge fart that set them in a roar again, "Jesus! That was a wet one! Y'know, she didn't even have a title before she married the King, well Prince Tommen he was back then. Alright for a quick fuck, but do you really see her as Queen? Hang her, I say. I'd happily do the job myself."

"But, you'd have some fun with her first, wouldn't you?" shouted Shagwell. "Like you did with that girl in Thailand. Fucking her up the arse."

"What. Rob her of the pleasure of looking at me?" replied Rorge, as the group roared with laughter again. 

"Some people say she's a witch" muttered Shagwell. 

"Oh come on. You don't believe that crap do you?" replied Rorge.

"Yeah, but if she is, shouldn't we be burning her? It would be fun to watch. We could strip her naked, and tie her to stake, and watch her catch fire." The group roared with laughter again.

"You looking at me or something? " Rorge suddenly shouted at Clegane. He could tell the man was a mean drunk, and looking for a fight. 

"Not in the least" he replied calmly. Rorge got up and staggered over to him, jabbing his finger in his face. 

"I think you should get the fuck out of here, you stupid cunt. Otherwise, I'll rip your fucking face off." 

"Alright" replied Clegane meekly. "I don't want to cause offence." he left the room, pursued by the jeers of the drinkers. 

Outside, the air was as cold as ever. The snow had begun to thaw, but the temperature had again fallen, turning much of the melted snow to ice. It was the merest chance that he should have nipped into this pub, at the end of his shift, only to find Rorge holding court. He'd hoped his men would have given the man a kicking, when the Queen was committed for trial, but evidently he'd outwitted them. Well, justice might be slow, but it seldom fails to overtake a villain. The street was badly lit, and he loitered in the shadow of some trees, waiting. Eventually, the drinkers stumbled out of the pub, and went their separate ways. Clegane pursued Rorge from a safe distance, staying in the shadows, as the man waddled away. He watched him turning into a small alleyway, fumbling with trousers. Clegane followed him into the alley, and saw the man emptying his bladder against the wall, completely oblivious to him. He sprang forward, gripping the man's hair, and driving his face hard into the wall, shattering what was left of his nose. Rorge fell to the ground, opening his mouth to scream, but Clegane stamped down hard on his windpipe, changing it into a gurgling rattle. Then he knelt down on his chest, straddling him. He knew what he had to do. The hard surface of the alley was the anvil, his fist the hammer, and Rorge's face, that was the metal to be worked. His first blow knocked out half the man's teeth, the next shattered his left cheek, and then repeated blows to the bridge of the man's nose, stove his face in completely. Clegane rose, stamping down repeatedly on the man's head, until it was mangled beyond recognition.

Clegane was no stranger to death. and Rorge was very clearly dead. The strange thing was, he felt no remorse. All his life, he'd believed in the rule of law, but here he had acted as judge, jury, and executioner. Yes, Rorge plainly deserved to die. The world was a better place without him. But, surely, he should be brought to trial? But, these were trouble times. The man was an enemy of the Queen, and the Queen had few defenders. Sometimes, one has to do the right thing, regardless of law, and killing the Queen's enemies was very much the right thing to do. She would surely approve when he told her. What to do with the body? Fortunately, there was a manhole cover nearby. Clegane unscrewed it, and then went back for the body. He dragged it over, and then shoved it down. Let the rats finish him. Better than the bastard deserved. 

As she was driven away from the Palace, Sansa thought it was a good day. The best day she'd had since she learned that the Queen would stand trial for treason and murder. The King's tongue had been introduced to her cunt, and her mouth to his cock, and the four of them had got along famously. She had truly enjoyed herself, but more importantly, she was sure she had replaced Queen Margaery in the King's affections. She felt no guilt. The Queen was a monster. The country would be better off without her. Her own children had been murdered, but she was still young enough to bear more. And, she would be happy to raise Myrcella as her own daughter, if she were married to him. Freed from the monster's influence, the girl could surely be brought up to be a decent young woman. 

Arya sniggered as usual. "Have a good time, then sis?" She didn't deign to reply. "What do you think mother would say if she knew about you and Tommen?" Mother, oh God, mother! Lady Catelyn was a devout member of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland. No, she would not approve at all! She seemed to disapprove of everything that Sansa and Arya did. Well, Arya was a lost cause, but what had Sansa done to earn Catelyn's disapproval? Dancing, singing in church, celebrating Christmas, even reading on the Sabbath , were all sinful in her mother's eyes. And, she'd only got worse since her father had passed away two years ago. Sir Ned Stark Of That Ilk, Baronet and twenty ninth Chieftan of the Clan Stark, and owner of eighty thousand acres of nearly worthless land in the Scottish Highlands. Now her brother Robb was the thirtieth chieftain, and forced to share their ancestral home at Winterfell with their mother. Sansa had done well to catch the eye of the heir to the throne. The Tyrells were parvenus, not even titled, but fabulously rich. Their Leicestershire country seat, Highgarden, designed by Robert Adam, was probably the finest eighteenth century mansion in England. It had been easy for Margaery to slither into the bed of Prince Tommen, now the King. But, Sansa was sure the King would share his bed with her again, and once Margaery had been executed, she would take her place. The public would welcome it. The Queen could wriggle and turn as much as she liked, but her guilt was plain for all to see. A few months from now, she would be lying in an unmarked grave, and everyone would forget that the King had ever married her. 

One last thing, she considered, as her car entered the gates of Kensington Palace. It really was time to get rid of "Mr. Plastic Posh", her odious servant. One thing she had noticed about royalty. They attracted the creepiest hangers-on. "Come with me, Burrell" she called out to him in the entrance hall. " I have some important news for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Marquis of Granby is a historic Westminster pub.
> 
> 2\. The Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland is not noted for its love of fun.
> 
> 3\. "Nearly worthless land" needs to be seen in context. Scottish rough grazing land is worth about £700 an acre. 80,000 acres equates to £56m. But, the income would be minimal, perhaps £10 an acre. That would just about cover the running costs of Winterfell, leaving Robb and Catelyn perhaps £30,000 a year between them.
> 
> Farmland in Leicestershire is £7-9,000 per acre.


	9. A Christmas Carol

Qyburn never missed his charity's annual concert at St. Michael's, Cornhill. As always, the music was exquisite, and the choristers excelled. It warmed his heart, to recall the good that his foundation did. Children who had been born into the most dreadful circumstances had been found new homes, good schools, and good careers. And the most promising, like Bronn, provided invaluable assistance in his legal practice. It pleased him to reflect on how much good he had achieved in the world, and how much good he could still achieve.

Afterwards, he enjoyed the mulled wine and mince pies, in the vestry. He conversed easily with benefactors, trustees, and children alike. One boy caught his eye.

"Arthur, how are you?"

"Well enough, sir."

"And your mother, how is her jaw?"

"It's healing up, sir, but we're both worried what will happen when her boyfriend comes back."

"I don't think you have anything to worry about Arthur. I don't think you'll see him in your mother's house again."

_Or anywhere else for that matter ___

__

__

"My mum's very grateful for all you've done." 

"Arthur, the rule of law is one of mankind's finest achievements. No matter who you are, your actions have consequences. No matter how violent, brutal or nasty a person is, the law will cut them down to size, and protect the people they seek to bully. It was an easy matter to bring the man to justice. You're an intelligent lad, would you like to be a lawyer when you grow up?" 

"I never thought of it, sir." 

"Well, if you continue to do well, we could give you a scholarship to go to university and law school." The boy flushed with pride. 

Bronn approached him through the crowd. "Excuse me, Arthur, he said, and turned to speak to Bronn. 

"Remember, Mr. Qyburn, your appointment with you know who." 

"I haven't forgotten." 

"You're sure you don't need me to come with you." 

"Quite sure, Bronn, but thank you for your concern." Qyburn bade goodnight to the other trustees, and put on his coat and gloves, before stepping out into the frozen night. He inhaled the cold night air with pleasure, before hailing a taxi to take him to his destination. 

A short drive him took him to a fine eighteenth century townhouse in Brook Street, Mayfair, which must have been worth millions. A smartly-dressed servant showed him in to a drawing room, to await his master, Lord Lewis Harcourt, Speaker of the House of Lords. Lord Harcourt kept him waiting a long time. Putting me in my place, but pride so often comes before a fall, he reflected. 

Not that Qyburn minded. There were several old masters on the walls, which he examined with keen interest, while waiting for his host. A man so wealthy, that he can pride himself on the fact that he can't be bought. But, give me a fulcrum, and I can move the world.

Eventually, the great man entered. "I apologise for keeping you waiting" he said, in a tone that implied the opposite. "No trouble my lord, I assure you." replied Qyburn.

"Is that a Rembrandt, my lord? It's outstanding."

"Huh, one of his minor works."

Dolt, he never painted a minor work

Lord Harcourt seated himself in a comfortable armchair, without inviting Qyburn to sit down. "Now then, I can guess why you're here. The Queen is on trial. I grant, you put up a good performance at the Committal. Personally, I'd have put her in prison, but you persuaded the Lord Chief Justice to let her remain at the Palace. But, let's be frank. She's going to be found guilty, and then she'll be hanged. You want me to pull some strings on your behalf. Do I hit the mark?"

"You're a clever man, my lord. You have guessed correctly."

"Well, let me tell you, I can't be bought. I ought to be telling the police about this visit. I could get the Bar Council to strike you off. Maybe get you prosecuted for trying to pervert the course of justice! You filthy lawyers, you think that justice is for sale in this country! Let me assure you that it is not!" He had gone quite red in the face by now.

"A noble stand my lord. I had hoped to induce you to assist her Majesty, but I see you will not be moved. The world would be a better place if more people in public life shared your....integrity. And to think, you stand to lose so much....."

"What are you alluding to?'

"Why to your predeliction for very young boys. We live in a more permissive world than the one that you and I grew up in, but even in this day and age, there are boundaries."

"You lie, you bastard!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. 

"Oh no, my lord, there is no mistake. I and my legal team have numerous sworn statements from young men who were ......loved by you, when they were boys. Let me see...." Qyburn opened his briefcase, and removed a slim document holder. "I have copies of the statements here. Perhaps you would like to study them at your leisure. Here, for example, you are described as dressing up in a gown and mortarboard "like a stern headmaster." The witness states that you required him to bend over that very armchair on which you sit, and to take down his pants, so that you could cane his rear end. He was thirteen at the time. Please keep this copy. I can assure you, it's a most interesting read. At least the press would think so." Qyburn removed another statement from his case. "Let me see, in this one, you are described as having "an arse like leather." I believe you enjoyed spanking this witness with the flat of a hairbrush. By this stage, Lord Harcourt was white-faced and spluttering. "And here, my lord, and I almost blush to say it, your name and the words "anal rape" appear in embarrassing proximity.

Harcourt fell back into the armchair. "What do you want?" he hissed.

"I want you to be sensible. it may occur to you these allegations would disappear if I were to come to harm. Let me assure you, that if an accident befell me, my associates would ensure that these statements were published. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you would face social and professional ruin, as well as a lengthy term of imprisonment. You know as well as I do, how the other prisoners react to the knowledge that an offender against children dwells among them. I know that they get placed on an isolation wing, but well....sometimes the warders "forget" to protect them from the rougher prisoners. Some of them are men serving lengthy terms, with young children of their own, who they have not seen for years. More than that, though" and here Qyburn's tone softened, "I want us to be friends. I can assure you, I am broad-minded about what men and women get up to in the privacy of their own homes. Your behaviour would have gone unremarked in the ancient world. Even today, in Afghanistan, rich men take boys as mistresses. In Iraq, they take nine year old girls to wife. Everywhere, custom is king. Come, shall we be friends?" Qyburn held out his hand. After a few moments' hesitation, the other man gingerly shook it, as though he was handling a snake.

"So what do you want?"

"Access to the House of Lords for associates of mine."

"And how am I do achieve that?"

"You are the Speaker of the Lords. The Parliamentary Security Director reports to you and the Speaker of the Commons"

"What reason would I give?"

"I'm confident you will find the reasons. After all, we are friends now, aren't we?" The man nodded meekly in response."

"Good, now that our business is concluded, I wish you good night, and the compliments of the Season." Qyburn left the room, and exited the building, humming the tune of Silent Night, which had been performed so well, a couple of hours previously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. St. Michael's Cornhill is an Anglican Church in the City, which often hosts concerts.
> 
> 2\. I have taken a historical liberty at this point. Lord Lewis Harcourt was a notorious paedophile who was a Cabinet Minister in the 1900's. He committed suicide in 1922, when he was on the point of being exposed. I have brought him back to life, for the purposes of this story. He had a house in Brook Street, Mayfair.


	10. A Winter's Tale

For as long as he could remember, Jon Connington had wanted to serve at Buckingham Palace. Ever since he'd been a young boy, growing up on a council estate in Pimlico. he had stared longingly at the great closed gates of the Palace, when he went to see the Trooping of the Colour, and Queen Cersei's birthday. He had often wondered what it would be like to live and work in such a place, among the great and noble. His record at school had been mediocre at best, nothing special. "Keep your head down and your mouth shut, and work hard. And, don't get above your station" his parents had always told him. His teachers had said much the same. When he left school, aged 16, with a handful of GCSE's, he'd drifted from one job to another.

That had been six years ago. Eventually, he'd found a job in the Palace stables, where he worked for the under-steward, John Mordaunt, known to all as "Mord," an elderly man who was strict, fair, and above all, professional. Under his tutelage, Connington had eventually joined the select few working as permanent footmen in the Palace. Ever since he'd been a teenager, he'd always had a crush on Prince Joffrey. He only met him occasionally, but when he did, his heart missed a beat. He loved to fantasise that the young Prince would leave his Duchess and run away with him, even though he knew it was just a pipe dream. Sansa Stark was beautiful, certainly, but he was sure she could never be truly worthy of the man he loved from afar. But, that man would be King in due course, and would need heirs of his own. In any event, Prince Joffrey had never shown the slightest interest in him. Still, a man can dream.

Until things had changed dramatically, six months ago. His beloved had been blown to pieces, with his two children, over the English Channel. The shock had been unbearable. For a time, he had drunk heavily, until Mord warned him that he was on the point of losing his job. Aware of his feelings for the late Prince, Mord assured him there were plenty of other fish in the sea, that indeed, the authorities at the Palace were extremely tolerant towards men such as him. To which he had only replied "When the Sun has set, what candle can replace it." Still, he had mended his ways, and sworn off alcohol, and been promoted to a senior footman. 

Grief had subsequently turned to hate; hate for the unspeakable whore who had orchestrated the murders. No tortures could be too good for her. She was well-guarded in her section of the Palace, but if he could only reach her, he'd make her suffer. Nor did he hold back from sharing his opinion of her.

As things turned out, he would have done better keeping his opinions to himself.

"Good grief, boy, you look awful" Mord said, not unkindly, one evening after work. Let's go for a bite to eat."

"You know I'm not drinking. "

"You don't have to. You fancy Italian?" He nodded. "Mind you, I don't fancy running the gauntlet of protestors, let's try a side entrance" said Mord. He led the pair of them through the Palace grounds to a small postern in the Wall. It was guarded, but the guards knew him well, and let him through, into a small alley that led to Birdcage Walk. 

"Frankly, I'm on the side of the protestors" said Jon, as they walked in the cold.

"Are you now, lad, why's that?"

"She's a witch, it's all over the Palace."

"Think so? I'd heard she'd become very devout. That's what Lady Daenerys told me anyway. The pair of them spend hours praying together."

"I think it's all a lie" he replied. "She's trying to pull the wool over everyones' eyes."

"Maybe you're right, but I don't think she's a witch" said Mord, cursing as his foot sunk into a thick patch of snow. "She's just.....different."

"What, you think we're in the middle of a winter that's lasted months because she's got a strange birthmark or something? Hodor and his learning problems are "different". Meryn Trant and his squint are "different." I'm gay, that makes me "different." The Queen isn't just different, she's possessed."

"I think you're letting your imagination run away with you. And here we are," Mord replies, as their destination came into view. They entered the restaurant, and were shown to a small table, in a booth, where could continue to talk, undisturbed. They both ate with relish, and discussed the Queen.

"You're not telling me you think she's innocent are you?" said Jon.

"I prefer to keep an open mind, that's all. You need to do so, if you want to survive at Court. Guard your opinions. Don't wear your heart on your sleeve. "

"Well, they're going to hang her, aren't they? I'd kill her myself if I thought she'd get away with her crimes."

"What makes you think her so-called crimes are relevant?" Jon stared at Mord in shock. "I mean, think about it. Every second member of this family has been a murderer, a rapist, or fucked her brother (don't look shocked, royalty have been screwing family members for centuries). It didn't stop them from being good kings and queens. A word to the wise, Jon. My first boss often told me "There have been many good men who were bad kings, and some bad men who were good kings." The same goes for the women, too."

"Don't say that!" Jon shouted, "she's evil. And she has to die!" Other diners looked over to them, puzzled.

"Bloody hell, Jon, calm down. You'd think I'd insulted your mother or something. I'm just trying to teach you a few things about politics. "

"Well, thank you for the meal, but there are some things I don't want to learn."

"Suit yourself then. Shall we go back?' Jon nodded, and Mord called over the waiter for the bill.

They trudged in silence through the snow, back towards the Palace. Jon was upset at the things Mord had said to him. He'd always thought the Under-Steward was a highly ethical man. It turned out, there's no one you think of as a friend who won't disappoint you. For his part, Mord seemed rather depressed. As they reached the alley that led back to the Palace grounds, the man suddenly cursed. "Shit, I've left my smart phone behind. You go on, and we'll talk later." Mord turned back as Jon entered the alley. He shivered in the cold as he walked, but at least he was nearly home.

There was a sudden cough, and Jon felt something punch him in the chest. Confused, he looked around. Nothing was around him but darkness. "Mord?" he asked. Or at least he tried to, but his mouth filled with blood and he spat a mouthful of it on to the tarmac. He tried to look around, but his head was spinning. He collapsed sideways, falling against the cold stone of the wall. He leaned back against it, trying to breathe through the blood that was filling his lungs. 

"I'm very sorry about this", a clear pleasant, aristocratic voice said, cutting through the night. With great difficulty, Jon looked up, towards the source of the noise. A woman stepped out of the shadows, young, attractive, silver-haired. In her right hand, she held a pistol, with a silencer attached to the muzzle. Somehow, she seemed familiar, but it was hard to focus. "You're a decent man, Jon" she continued. "You're a hard worker, a diligent footman. It's just a shame you weren't made to survive in a royal court. " Jon tried to speak, but all he managed to do was spatter blood down the front of his coat. It was becoming difficult to concentrate, even to breathe. Indifferently, the woman kept speaking. "You aren't really to blame. Sometimes, people just find themselves in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But, you really should have taken Mord's advice. It could have saved your life. Oh, and by the way, and I do apologise, but I'm going to have you dumped in a sewer. " If Jon hadn't been dying, he would have spluttered indignantly. "Oh don't be like that? I have to dispose of the evidence. Mr. Qyburn would not be happy if I just left your body lying around. I'm sure people will wonder where you've gone, but a few choice words here and there about how you've wanted to end your life, ever since your beloved Prince Joffrey was killed, and the rumour mill will take care of the rest.

Then, nothing.


	11. A Scandal in Kensington

"It's not fair, not fair at all", whined the man, wringing his hands and shuffling, before Margaery Tyrell. "I served her, I served her, and now she goes and sacks me. She's always despised me, always looked down on me, and it's not like she's English anyway. She's a Scottish cow. Not like you Ma'am." He bowed again, with more than a hint of a scrape. The Queen let him ramble on, smiling sympathetically.

"I like you Burrell. As far as I can tell, you have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. You are a coward, you are stupid, and you are disloyal, and yet I like you. " 

The man flushed with pleasure, before replying "Thank you, Ma'am, you are so kind."

"Lady Daenerys says you have important information for me. I presume that you are seeking a reward."

"Service is it's own reward Ma'am. I want nothing more than to serve your Majesty."

"We'll see. Spit it out " (an ironic choice of words, she would subsequently think).

"She makes out like she's perfect, but I know she's a wicked woman, I know it." A cunning glint entered his eyes, and he lowered his voice, leaning forward to the Queen. "She's a fornicator she is, a harlot. She came here, and I hate to say it Ma'am, but she made the beast of two backs with your husband, the King."

There was a long silence as Margaery stared at him intently. She saw sweat gleaming on the man's brow. "Did she now?" she replied softly. "How do you know this? And be very careful how you answer this question?"

"I had access to her e-mail account. She didn't know I had her password. And, there were e-mails between her and the king; intimate, compromising e-mails. I transferred them to my smartphone, I can show you. I don't want to pollute my mouth by repeating such vile words. They did wicked things. Obscene things. " He handed the phone to the Queen, who examined it in detail. Among all the smut, there was a film of a young woman's head, unmistakeably that of Sansa Stark, bobbing up and down on a man's cock, presumably, her husband's. Not for the first time, she wondered what drove some people to film themselves having sex.

"Well well, be careful what questions you ask. You might not like the answers you're given" she murmured. "You are useful to me Burrell. Report to Mord tomorrow, and he will find work for you. I believe a vacancy has recently come up among the footmen" she stared pointedly at Daenerys, whose face, as usual was a mask of girlish innocence. "Oh, and give him your smartphone. He'll know how to make use of it."

Burrell fell to his knees, crying out "God bless your Majesty. Thank you. I'm not out for myself. I'm doing it for the Realm. An adulteress can't be Queen. It says so in the Scriptures!" 

"That will be all, Burrell, you may go now." The man shuffled out backwards, bowing and cringing by turn, as Daenerys opened the door for him.

"That creature is evil. He can't be trusted" declared Daenerys, after he had left. 

"I know that as well as you do, my dear, but I think we can trust him to take revenge on his former employer."

"Perhaps, but there are dark, closed, rooms, in his mind."

"Would you say he has a mind, sweetling?"

"A narrow, stupid, wicked one, but he still has a certain low cunning. He's like Gollum; small, gnomelike, and misshapen, but still possessing a demonic inner drive."

Margaery burst out laughing. "Oh, Daenerys, you have such a wonderful turn of phrase. I'll have to remember that."

"He could be lying Ma'am. It's easy enough to produce fake images." 

"Oh, I know. It's just that his words (and that film) so completely match my suspicions. According to my sources, Sansa has indeed been spending hours alone with my husband. I don't need to be a rocket scientist to understand what's going on between them. It seems I rather underestimated her, wouldn't you say?"

"It's disgraceful. You have been a perfect wife and mother, and yet he goes and cheats on you!" She saw Daenerys crying as she spoke with passion.

"Well, I'm afraid that's what the Windsors do. They have the sexual appetites of goats. Every one of them has had mistresses. Some of them dozens. Some of them even had boyfriends as well. One of them had an affair with Noel Coward, and as for Lord Mountbatten, well, let's just say no page boy was safe from him. "

"Ugh! It makes me feel sick! But, you're a wonderful woman, and a wonderful Queen. Any man should be proud to be married to you!"

The Queen embraced Daenerys, holding her close. "Sweetling, my husband is not a bad man, but he is weak, easily led astray. At least there are no boyfriends. And Sansa is a very wicked woman. She wants to destroy me, so why should she not seduce my husband as well. She wants to be Queen in my place. She will take my daughter from me, and rejoice at my death."

"Never" cried Daenerys. "I would die rather than that let happen. I have killed for you, and I'd do so again". And, wasn't that interesting? She didn't think this sweet simple girl had it in her to take a man's life. But, by all accounts, she had done so calmly, professionally, and without fuss. 

"I would never ask you to die for me. I know that God is testing me, and testing you, as well. It is a comfort to me to know that I have at least one dear friend in the world. Now, I have an appointment with Commander Clegane. Would you be so kind as to leave the two of us together. " Obediently, Daenerys left the room. 

_Well, sweet sister in law, I would give you an eternity of suffering if I could. Creeping into my husband's bed like the rat that you are, spitting venom in his ear. I would make your dying last days if I could. Qyburn's plans for you are far too humane. But careful, careful. Don't let anger get the better of you. Qyburn's plan is a good one, and will rid you of her, and the rest of your enemies. ___

There was a loud knock on the door. "Enter" she called out. Clegane entered. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company. Have you come to pray with me?" 

"I wish to tell you, I'm your man unto death. Six days ago, I killed a man for you." 

"What do you mean?" she replied, surprised. 

"I killed Rorge, the man who exposed himself to you in Parliament Square. I beat him to death, and dumped his body in a sewer." 

"Why, Commander Clegane, I admire your devotion to my cause, but are we not enjoined as Christians to forgive our enemies?" 

"Some things are beyond forgiveness, Ma'am. The man was a murder, a rapist, but worst of all, he was your enemy. But, if I have displeased you, I can only apologise." 

"Not at all Commander. I am not displeased. It is at least a comfort to know that I have one friend in the world. Do you know, if you were to approach Mr. Qyburn, I think he could put your talents to very good use. I'll give you his phone number here. Although, I'm sure I don't need to tell an officer of your experience that confidential matters are best discussed face to face. You never know who might be listening in. My late father-in-law was caused considerable embarrassment, when journalists overheard him telling his mistress that he wished to be reincarnated as her tampon. And Commander, please accept this token of my appreciation". She removed a small diamond brooch from her lapel, and offered it to him. 

Clegane flushed. "Ma'am, there's no way I could accept. " 

"Please Commander. If I am to die, it would at least be a comfort to know that my possessions will go to my friends, rather than my enemies." Tears shone in her eyes, and she bowed her head. 

"I shall take it then, Ma'am. But have no fear, you will not die. I shall see to it. And, you have the best counsel in England defending you. " 

"I know. God speed, Commander, and lend him your assistance." 

She laughed to herself, after he had left. She wondered who was the biggest fool, Clegane or Daenerys. The evidence of her guilt was, she well knew, overwhelming, but she had somehow persuaded them of her innocence. Her pretence of piety was enough for them both to commit crimes on her behalf. Christians really were such fools, with their willingness to forgive a repentant sinner, and their stupid belief in pity and mercy. Still, that was all to the good. It made them easy to manipulate. When all was said and done, it would be a great shame if religion ever disappeared from the world. 

_What an actress I could have been_

Two days later, Sansa came down to breakfast, to be greeted by Arya wearing a broad grin. "Morning sis.....or should I say, morning Princess Suck Suck. That's what they're calling you on Tumblr and Instagram." Her blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?" 

"Here." Arya handed her sister her tablet, which showed unmistakeable footage of the Duchess of Clarence going down on a man. The accompanying e-mails made plain that that man was the King of England and Scotland. "Oh God, how did this happen? " 

"Dunno. But what were you thinking? You might just well shout it from the rooftops, as put it in an e-mail." 

There was a buzz as her smartphone went off. For Fuck's Sake, her mother, Lady Catelyn! Surely, she didn't follow social media? She was soon disabused of that idea. 

"Well, 'tis the price of me for raising a whore" her mother began. "Arya, yes, she's a lost cause. But, you? You were meant to be better. I should never have let you leave Winterfell for that stinking pit of whoredom in London. My own daughter, a fornicator! Practising houghmagandie like a common strumpet". As for Arya, the evil creature could hardly contain her glee as she overhead their mother. Furious, Sansa terminated the conversation. 

"I'll have to contact Farrer's. They can get a superinjunction to stop this". 

"Won't do much good now, Sansa. They can keep it out of the papers, but it's all over social media. So, did you let Tommen finish in your mouth?" 

"Get out!" Sansa screamed, chucking a small pot of jam at her sister, who dodged it nimbly, and ran from the room cackling.

Margaery Tyrell. She had to be behind this, somehow. Oh, she would make her pay, she thought grimly, even as she speed-dialled her solicitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "It says so in the Scriptures". Obadiah Hakeswill, in Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe series, is a great villain, and I couldn't resist giving Burrell his favourite saying.
> 
> 2\. Farrer & Co. are solicitors to the Royal Family. A superinjunction not only prevents the media from commenting on the private life of its subject, but also prevents them from mentioning the fact that there is an injunction. But, it is almost impossible to police social media.
> 
> 3\. My thanks to Not_So_Dark_One for giving me the suggestion for the last part of this chapter.


	12. The Whore of Babylon

Sister Unella glowered at the sinner, as the evening service Westminster Cathedral progressed. _A woman of true evil. Murderer, traitor, fornicator. But completely unrepentant. And there she is among us. Allowed out of the Palace on bail, to pollute our sacred services with her foul presence. Making a pretence of piety and innocence, but possessing the heart of the blackest devil in hell. Better that she dress in sackcloth, and be placed on a diet of bread and water, until she confesses her sins and crimes. And next to her, a lesser devil. Her little silver-haired whore, her accomplice in depravity." ___

It infuriated her that some of her co-religionists thought that the Queen had returned to the faith of her fathers. How could she have? She had converted to Godless Protestanism, in order to marry a Prince. Now, she pretended to have returned to the True Faith. But, Unella knew the truth. Within the heart of Margaery Tyrell, there lurked the soul of a murderous, lying, hypocrite. Well, she would not keep silent. Tonight, she was due to give the homily. She would speak truth to power. Earlier, she had been met by a tearful Duchess Sansa, who had explained to her how the vilest of fabricated images and e-mails about her had been broadcast over social media. The Duchess was herself a heretic; but, better a heretic than a hypocrite and murderer. She would pray for Sansa's soul, in the hope that she too would convert to the righteous path. The woman had drafted a choice homily for her to deliver to the congregation. It matched her sentiments exactly. At last, the Priest fell silent, and Unella mounted the steps of the pulpit. Her fierce gaze swept the congregation, before settling on the Queen. And, then she spoke:-

"And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters: With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication. So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH. And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.And the angel said unto me, Wherefore didst thou marvel? I will tell thee the mystery of the woman, and of the beast that carrieth her, which hath the seven heads and ten horns."

The congregation began to stir uneasily. "What then, is the mystery of the woman? Who is the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth. I shall tell you. She is here tonight, attending this very service. A murderer, a traitor, a harlot. She calls herself Queen of England, yet she is the Queen of whores! She is a witch, and are we not taught that we shall not suffer a witch to live? In better days, our ancestors would have burned her kind at the stake! Her hands drip with the blood of innocents. Her woman's parts drip with the seed of a thousand men, her mouth also! She commits fornication with the devil himself. And see sitting next to her, her partner in corruption, her little paramour, with whom she performs all manner of lewdness and depravity! She is more cruel than Herod and filthier than Messalina. Let her repent of her sins and confess her evil deeds. Let her go the judgement she merits, liar, whore, traitor" she screamed, spraying spittle over the congregation, and jabbing her finger at the Queen whose face was a mask of fury. Margaery and Daenerys leapt to their feet, and the Queen turned to the Priest, shouting "Reverend Father, how long will you allow that thing to bray her spite at me and Lady Daenerys?" The congregation was now in uproar, some shouting abuse at the Queen and Daenerys, but a larger number angrily denouncing Unella. She continued raving "Repent, repent! Hell's hottest fires are reserved for hypocrites. Go now to the fate reserved to thee, evil woman, criminal, murderer. Go to the gallows, and be hanged in shame!" The Priest and his acolytes rushed the pulpit, dragging Unella down, and hauling her away. A big-boned woman, Unella fought back, felling one of the acolytes with a right hook to his jaw, and blacking the eye of the priest. She continued screaming and ranting as she was she was dragged into a side chapel, which was locked behind her. Police surrounded the Queen, who must unusually, looked very shaken. 

The Priest rushed over to her. "Your Majesty, Lady Daenerys, please accept my apologies. I really had no idea that she would behave like this. " 

The Queen controlled her temper with difficulty. "I believe I have seen her before, in Parliament Square, shouting abuse when I was committed to trial. " 

"I'm sorry, I had no idea she was part of that sorry spectacle" replied the Priest. 

"Well, we are taught to forgive those who hate us, and bless our persecutors, are we not. I know that God is testing me. I must not hate her, or give way to anger. Yet, even if she hates me, what has this poor child done to merit her abuse?' she looked at Daenerys, who was quietly weeping.

"Even Our Lord grew wroth at the money changers in the Temple. There is no excuse for her behaviour towards either of you." 

"Am I so hated that I cannot even attend Divine service? " she asked. "Of course not, Your Majesty. Please don't judge us all by the behaviour of one fanatic. She will be disciplined for her outburst. I beg you both, stay for the remainder of the service. " As the service continued, Margaery thought more about the nun's outburst. Partly in reaction to the shock, she found herself stifling laughter. Leaving aside the crude sexual insults, she had to admit the mad old bigot had summed her up quite accurately. 

_The Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth _. Well it did have a certain ring to it. Still, she remembered the promise she had made to herself outside Parliament. She had a little list in her mind, and Unella had a prominent place on it. Daenerys and Clegane would be outraged, but she could turn that to her advantage.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The text which Unella quotes is Revalation 17 v 1 to 8.
> 
> 2\. In the Roman Catholic Church, only a male priest can administer communion. However, a nun, or a member of the laity, can deliver the homily.


	13. Trouble at Westminster

“Let’s have a feel, dearie. Ooh, I love a man who’s hung like a horse”. Lancel wanted to gag as the woman started to grope his crotch. She was, quite simply, the ugliest woman he had ever encountered, with a mouth full of rotting teeth, a beard, and the most fetid odour wafting from her body. At least, she would have been the most ugly, but the other two who had been employed with her were even worse. And, they were just so lewd! Every time he encountered them, they’d make some foul remark, or start to grope him. One had even expressed the desire to rape him! And, there was nothing he could do about it. In theory, there were procedures in place to protect House of Lords Staff from sexual harassment, but he knew he’d just be laughed at if he complained about their behaviour. A man was expected to be able to look after himself. They had started work a few days ago, yet for some unaccountable reason, they enjoyed the favour of the Parliamentary Security Director, and were vouched for by the Metropolitan Police, who had vetted them, prior to their beginning work.

It wasn’t just the three old women. Several other new staffers had begun work, at the same time, mostly teenage boys. They all came from some charity that looked after orphans, it seemed. They and the hags seemed to be working endlessly down in the cellars below the Houses of Parliament. What they were up to, he had no idea, but it all seemed deeply suspicious to him. His years of experience as a security guard had given him a good inkling of when something was wrong, and he was sure something was wrong. He had raised his concerns with his line manager, and he had been told to mind his own business. Indeed, he had been told he would be facing disciplinary action if he raised the matter again. 

He evaded the woman’s grasp, as she gave an evil cackle, and farted at him by way of comment. He hurried down the corridor towards the staff canteen. He needed more time to think. As he ate his lunch, he brooded on the problem. The Queen was due to stand trial shortly. He did not doubt for one moment that she was guilty as charged. The staff at Westminster talked about little else, and most of them shared his opinion. Were these strange new appointments anything to do with this? What would the Queen have to do with such creatures? Suddenly, he remembered. The Queen’s barrister, Philip Qyburn, ran a charity for orphans. This was surely no coincidence? He swallowed the last of his lunch and made his way to the library, and looked up Qyburn’s biography. There it was. He was Chairman of St. Brutus’ Charity. The same organisation that these new staffers came from! He looked up the history of the Charity. Until a few years ago, it had been called St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. The Charity looked after a collection of young arsonists, thugs, thieves, and rapists, and sought to turn their lives around. Well, that hardly inspired confidence in his new colleagues, but who could he tell? His line manager would simply stonewall him, or worse, get him sacked. No, somehow he had to get into the cellars, and find out what was taking place. 

He knew the stairways and passageways of the Palace of Westminster like the back of his hand. As a security guard, no one would question him if he slipped down a service stairwell, and made his way to the cellars. The cellars themselves were vast, covering thousands of square meters, on several levels. There was no time like the present. He found his way to a little-used stairwell, and descended it, thankful he was wearing rubber-soled shoes, which made no noise. He made his way to the bottom, and then trod lightly towards an emergency exit, which led out of the cellars. Carefully, carefully, he turned the lock, drew open the door and entered. It was dark in there, although not quite pitch black, and it took time for his eyes to adjust. He’d rely on his smart phone to provide him with a little light when needed. He had to be careful where he was going. The cellars were a rabbit warren, filled with the junk of centuries. They had a stale, airless, smell about them. He crept forward. He knew he could be down here for hours, searching for his quarry. 

He started suddenly, as something ran across his foot. A rat! The cellars teemed with them. No amount of effort could eradicate vermin from the Houses of Parliament. At last, he found what he was looking for. The sounds of the old women giving instructions to the youths; the sounds of large crates being shifted along the ground, and stacked. In silence, he made his way forward, and slipped behind a crate, so that he could observe what was taking place. He heard a throaty chuckle at his side. 

"I knew it. I knew you wanted a shag. I know a place down here where we’ll be nice, and warm and comfortable.” Horrified, Lancel turned to find the hag who had felt his crotch earlier, grinning at him, and reaching out to grasp his head in her hands. As she drew him towards her, her lips fastened on his, and he felt her tongue enter his mouth, devouring him. With a desperate effort, he flung her off him, and ran for his life, pursued by her cries of rage. They had known he was down there, but how? He had made no more noise than a mouse! He reached the fire door, and darted through it, before racing upstairs, his heart pounding all the while. He needed a drink, and ordered a huge scotch in the canteen. More than ever, he was convinced that something dark and deadly was at work in the cellars, but he was no nearer solving the problem. All he could do now was watch, and wait. The wisdom of the age in three words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys is taken from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban


	14. Judgement Day

Daenerys had not slept during the night, as she made her arrangements. Dressed in black beret, brown leather jacket, and dark trousers, Glock 17 strapped to her waist in its holster, she drove to Heathrow airport, reaching the bay where their private jet was parked, at 3 a.m. A dozen members of the Metropolitan Police Firearms Unit, chosen by Glegane, waited for her there. "We have a list" she informed them. She did not need to explain further. They were all men loyal to the Queen, and would fight bravely for her this day, or perish in the attempt. As they flew towards Inverness Airport, she mused over the coming events. Either she would achieve greatness today, or be hanged. So be it, the same choice can take you either to the gallows, or the House of Lords.The police officers said little, simply checking their rifles from time to time. They had all studied the map to their destination. At 5.30 am, they reached Inverness, where two Land Rovers were waiting for them. They clambered in, and drove at top speed for their destination. For Winterfell.

Bronn examined the lock on the front door minutely, before putting on a pair of surgical gloves, and taking out his pick. Qyburn had given him a strange assignment, kidnapping a mad nun, and then delivering her to the Queen's judgement. Surely there were bigger fish to fry, today of all days. But, he pays extremely well, and if that comes off, I'll be a bloody baronet. Sir Bronn of Westminster. He rather liked the sound of that. The lock was a Yale. Child's play to pick it. It took him no more than a couple of minutes before the door opened, and he entered, stealthy as a cat. He crept upstairs, and then halted. He heard the sound of his quarry snoring in the opposite bedroom. He set down the satchel he was carrying, and removed from it a bottle of chloroform and a cloth. Carefully, he unscrewed the lid of the bottle, pouring the liquid on to the cloth, before replacing the cap to the bottle, and returning it to the satchel. Gently, very gently, he turned the door handle with his left hand, the right holding the cloth. The woman was fast asleep. He padded over to the bed, positioned himself, and then clamped the cloth on the woman's nose. She started awake, and briefly struggled, before subsiding into a deeper state of unconsciousness. God, she weighs a ton, he thought, as he carried over his shoulder to the front door. He lowered her to the floor, opened the door, and reconnoitred the street. Coast clear. It was too early for many people to be up and about. He picked the woman up again, and carefully deposited her in the boot of his car. 

Margaery Tyrell rose early, on the morning of her trial. She was full of nervous excitement as she faced this day, her life's supreme test. By the day's end, she would be triumphant or dead. She had long resolved to take her own life if the plot failed. After she he had showered, she put on a black and silver dress, resembling a military uniform. She needed a stiff drink. She poured herself a large glass of wine, from a decanter on the sideboard, and waited on events. 

King Tommen awoke to the worst day of his life, and that was saying something. News of his liaison with Sansa had been kept out of the mainstream media, thanks to the super-injunctions obtained by Farrers. But, of course, the story had run wild on social media. And, now his wife was due to stand trial. His fear for her life was sharpened by his guilt over his affair with his sister-in-law. Throwing caution to the winds, they had both continued their tryst over the past few weeks. What had possessed him to film her sucking him off, let alone e-mailing it to her? Sansa was a passionate lover, but he was well aware of the hatred she bore for his wife, and had made clear her determination to replace her. She wanted Margaery to die. If his wife was acquitted, how could he face her again, knowing that he had been unfaithful. If she was found guilty and hanged, how could he marry the woman who had engineered her downfall. 

Sansa was thrilled. The witch had run out of road at last. She had wriggled and turned, but now she was about to answer for her crimes. Unella's sermon had not turned out as well as she had hoped, but that meant little in the scheme of things. It was a surprise really, that Margaery had not attempted to flee to the country. There were places she could run to to escape justice, even if her reputation would have been destroyed forever. This was much better. In her mind's eye, she savoured the image of the Lord Chief Justice, putting on his black cap, and handing down the dread sentence. She imagined her rival collapsing in the Dock, or raving and screaming abuse at the judge and jury. Best of all, she imagined that last dawn; Margaery Tyrell, sleepless, haggard, terrified, being led out of her prison cell, for that last, short, walk to the gallows; her arms and legs being pinioned, a hood placed over her head, and the noose around her neck. And then, that final beautiful moment, when the trap door would spring open, and her body would fall through, snapping her neck, and ridding the world of her vile presence. Yes, the world would be a cleaner, better, place, without her in it. She dressed hurriedly. It was time to go and take her place with the other dignitaries observing the trial. Arya was out for the count, after spending the night partying. Well, she'd just have to follow.

Clegane drove for Buckingham Palace. Qyburn had given him clear instructions. Above all, he must save the King from himself, ensure he did nothing rash. This day, God willing, would see the enemies of the Queen destroyed. But the King must come to no harm. Whatever his faults, he was the Queen's husband, and the father of Princess Marcella. He drove through the gates, ignoring the protesters. He parked the car behind the Palace, and entered with a couple of officers. in tow. In the entrance hall, he met Burrell the footman, who he had come to detest on very short acquaintance. The man led him and his officers to the King's chambers. He knocked, and then he entered the man's bedroom. He saw him with his back to him, wearing a black suit, and a thin circlet of gold about his head. The king muttered to himself "Right, time to get this over with." Clegane stood impassively before him, blocking his exit. "Commander, I'm late for the trial" he said. "You're going nowhere your Majesty. " Clegane placed his hand firmly on the King's chest, preventing him moving to the door. One of the other officers shut the door, turning the lock. 

"You have a list." Qyburn had repeated these words a dozen times during the course of the night. To his little birds, to Catholic clergy, who dreamed that the Queen would return the country to the True Faith, and to the leaders of the Women' Equality Party, who championed the Queen. One of these groups would be disappointed, he thought, but that was a problem for tomorrow. This work completed, he drove off towards Buckingham Palace. 

Pycelle was puzzled by the strange message he had received from the King, to meet him early at the Palace, on the morning of the trial. The old footman, Mord, who had come to deliver it, had been most insistent, when he appeared at Lambeth Palace. He was the foreman of the jury and he knew the Lord Chief Justice would be most displeased, if he was late for the trial. But, God knew, the man needed some moral support, today of all days, whether or not it was true that he was having an affair with the Duchess of Clarence. Mord had a car waiting, and drove him to the Palace. When they arrived, he was surprised to be led down several fights of stairs, rather than up to the King's chambers. Mord opened a door, leading into a small dark chamber. Plainly, the King had to discuss something very confidential with him, a long way from prying eyes and ears. 

But the King was not there. Instead, he found himself face to face with Philip Qyburn. "Where is the King?" 

"Elsewhere I'm afraid." 

"Well, this is ridiculous, I have nothing to say to you." He turned to leave, and found his way blocked by a pair of teenage boys. He saw that they had knives in their hands. Shocked, he turned back to Qyburn, who spoke gently. 

"Please your Grace, I bear you no ill will; forgive me if you can. Whatever your faults, you do not deserve to die alone, in this cold dark place, but sometimes........before we can usher in the new........the old must be laid to rest." The boys padded towards him, as he remained frozen on the spot.

Lancel observed the worthies in Westminster Hall. He recognised the Prime Minister, the Speakers of both Houses, numerous leading politicians and dignitaries, and the Duchess of Clarence. The Lord Chief Justice was already in situ, and clearly getting annoyed, looking pointedly at his watch. The Prosecution barristers and solicitors were waiting patiently in their seats, but there was no sign of the Queen or any of her legal team. Just as strange, there was no sign of either the King or the Archbishop of Canterbury. 

"Where is Her Majesty the Queen?' snapped the judge. "It appears she never left Buckingham Palace" replied a clerk. "Then go the palace, and remind her that she is due to stand trial." The clerk hurried off, accompanied by a team of police officers. The crowd began to stir, plainly annoyed at the delay. Lancel looked at Sansa again, who was plainly agitated. He was concerned too. He had not been able to get to the bottom of what was happening in the cellars. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the boys from St. Brutus'. The lad looked furtive, although that might be just his imagination. Still, better safe than sorry. He rose, and flowed the youth, keeping him in sight, while remaining unobserved, he hoped. To his complete lack of surprise, the boy was making his way to the cellars. Whatever he was up to, he'd catch him red-handed. The boy looked around him, and then descended a stairwell. Lancel followed him, stealthily.


	15. The Fall of the House of Windsor

Daenerys' heart beat with excitement as they raced through the Scottish countryside in the lead Land Rover. They took the A9, before turning West on to the A 835 towards Ullapool. After perhaps fifteen miles, they turned down a minor single track road, that would take them to their destination. It never ceased to surprise her just how empty of people Scotland was. Almost everyone lived in four cities and their satellites, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, and Dundee. Still, it made their job so much easier. There was no risk of being caught up in heavy traffic. They would be driving hundreds of miles, back and forth across the Highlands today, before returning to London. Eventually, they reached a pair of locked, wrought iron gates, the entrance to Winterfell. Two of the police got out and burst into the Gatekeeper's cottage. After a few minutes, the man and his wife were led out at gunpoint, handcuffed, and deposited in the second Land Rover. . A policeman unlocked the gates, and they drove up to the country house of the Starks. Everywhere, there were signs of dilapidation, fallen trees that had not been cleared, fields that been allowed to run wild with brambles, sagging fences. Plenty of capital, but no income, she thought. They drew up outside the house, and Daenerys jumped out, shooting off the lock to the front door. She rushed in with ten police, two others guarding the prisoners. As arranged, the steward was waiting for them, trembling. He led her to Lady Catelyn's bedroom. She kicked the door open, even as Catelyn jerked up in bed, bleary eyed. "Lady Catelyn Stark, you are under arrest for treason towards Queen Margaery Tyrell, and crimes against the Motherland. You will accompany us. " She turned to the steward, "take four of my men to Sir Robb's bedroom," she commanded. They left. "What is the meaning of this?" screamed Catelyn. Daenerys pointed her pistol at her directly before saying "Get dressed and all will be made clear." After five minutes, she led the woman out of the room, and out of the building. A young man, who she assumed to be Sir Robb, was already standing under guard, with four servants. "Is this man, Sir Robb Stark" she asked the Steward. He nodded. 

"Sir Robb Stark, Lady Catelyn Stark, you are sentenced to death as traitors and saboteurs. " There was a brief burst of gunfire, and they fell to the ground with their servants. 

"You promised me a reward" said the Steward, a gleam in his eye. 

"So I did" she replied calmly, shooting him through the head. "So should any servant be rewarded who betrays his mistress."

Two more gunshots rang out from the second Land Rover.

"Leave the bodies here" she commanded her men. "Time is tight." Indeed it was. The Starks had many relatives in the vicinity, who needed to be disposed of.

Arya woke in Kensington Palace, still hungover from last night's excesses. Her Smartphone was buzzing continuously. She saw there was a text from a Scottish cousin. "Run, Arya, they're murdering all of us." She didn't hesitate, suddenly rendered quite sober. She found her passport, collected all the jewellery she could, left the Palace, and hailed a taxi for Heathrow Airport. She forwarded the message on to Sansa, praying that her phone was still switched on. 

Lancel followed the boy into the cellars. The lad was swift as a weasel, and it didn't take long for him to vanish out of sight. Damn it, he had lost him already! It was pitch black, and freezing cold down here. He took out his smartphone to provide light, and crept towards the area where he had seen the crates being deposited. As far as he could tell, there was no one apart from the boy down here. That was all to the good. At least he would have the chance to examine the crates. He called out "the longer you remain hidden, the worse for you it will be!`'. He slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees, but there was no sign of the boy. Then he heard the sound of rushing feet. Before he could turn, he felt a sudden pain in the small of his back. He cried out, and fell to the ground, his spinal chord severed by the boy's knife. He looked up to see they boy staring down at him, before rushing off to the exit. 

Upstairs in Westminster Hall, Sansa was becoming increasingly concerned. Where was the Queen or her legal team? Surely, she had to realise how much this would prejudice her case? And, the absence of the King and Archbishop was downright sinister. At last, her patience came to an end. She rose, and approached the Lord Chief Justice. 

"Something is wrong my Lord. The Queen is not here. Her legal team is not here. The King and Archbishop are not here!" 

"You have nothing to fear, your Grace, the officers of the Court have gone to fetch the Queen."

"And, if she barricades herself into the Palace what then?" 

"Then, the trial will proceed in her absence, until she is handed over. She cannot escape justice." 

She felt a buzz, in the inside pocket of her jacket. She looked down at the message that Arya had sent her. And, realised what was about to happen. 

"Forget about bloody justice, my lord" she screamed. "The Queen and her team know very well what the consequences will be if they do not appear, and they have not appeared! That means they don't intend to suffer those consequences. We all need to leave!" 

"Don't be absurd." 

She turned to the crowd "We all need to leave now!"

Lancel groaned in agony, semi-conscious. He raised his head, and last, he discovered what had been taking place down in the cellars. He smelled it before he saw it; that heady scent of nitroglycerin mixed with saltpetre. Gelignite! Crate after crate of gelignite, neatly stacked to the ceiling. There could be only one explanation why it had been placed here. The Queen and her supporters were planning to blow up the entire Palace of Westminster, decapitate the government in one fell swoop. There must be some form of blast fuse, either burning down steadily, or operated remotely, which would then cause the gelignite to explode. He knew just how powerful gelignite was. There was enough here to flatten Parliament Square, most of Whitehall, and several surrounding streets! There was no way he could make his way back upstairs. He had to find the detonators, and disable them. Dragging himself forward with his hands, he inched towards the crates. 

"We all need to leave!" Sansa screamed again. People began to hurriedly leave their seats, making for the exits. 

"Order, order in Court", bellowed the Lord Chief Justice. "Officers, do not open the exits, he shouted to the police who stood at the doors. Sansa attempted to push past a group of policemen who blocked the way out. 

"Ma'am, if we let people out, they'll be trampled in the stampede. You have to return to your seat" shouted one. 

"Let me through, let me through!" she shrieked, but the police were unyielding. Filled with dread, she turned to glare at the Lord Chief Justice, his face a mask of shock, as it dawned on him, he was out of his depth.

Lancel reached the first of the crates. Again he switched on his smartphone to provide light. And saw the first of the blast fuses, smouldering. Fortunately, it was within easy reach. There was still a chance that he could remove this, and the others. Carefully, very carefully, he clasped the wire between his thumb and forefinger, and started to pull it forth. However, TATP is very sensitive to friction. The movement of the blast fuse was quite sufficient to ignite it. He saw a sudden flare as the TATP ignited, before being blown to merciful oblivion as the first crate exploded. 

Sansa heard a low rumble, starting from below, but reverberating through the Hall, ever more loudly, becoming a roar. The floor erupted in a mass of flame, and for an instant, she saw the Lord Chief Justice go up like a white torch. Fortunately, she died before she even had the chance to scream. 

Margaery jumped, as she heard a sound like a large wardrobe falling over, followed by a low rumble. A few seconds later, her room shook. Her heart raced with excitement. She looked out of the window, across Horseguards Parade, towards Westminster. At first, there was nothing, but then a great pall of black smoke rose in the air, rapidly growing and thickening. She fancied she could hear screaming. She let out a low sigh of relief, and walked over to her decanter, on the sideboard. She poured herself a glass of red wine, and savoured the view from the window. A message flashed up on her phone "Job Done." She raised the glass to her nose, inhaled deeply, and slowly smiled, before drinking deeply. She still had an important task to perform. 

Unella choked, and spluttered as she woke. She spat out the wine that had been poured over her. She tried to move, but was pinioned to a broad table, in a cellar. She saw the Queen staring down at her. 

"Repent, repent" she said, taking time to pour more wine over her victim's face. "You called on me to repent. You weren't worried about the state of my soul. You abused me in the Cathedral, and outside Parliament, because it made you feel good. I understand. I do things because they make me feel good. I drink, because it makes me feel good. I murdered my husband's family, because it makes me feel good. Today, I murdered the whole of Clan Stark, the Prime Minister, the Cabinet, the MP's and the Lords, because it makes me feel good. It makes me feel good to know that I and my husband will rule without restraint, and that my daughter will inherit the throne. No thought has ever given me greater joy." 

She leaned forward, with a smile that would have curdled milk, and gently stroked Unella's face and bosom. Her skin crawled under Margaery's touch. "I promised myself, that day in Parliament Square, that my face would be the last thing you saw before you died.' 

"Good. I'm happy to go before God!" she replied defiantly. 

"Today? You think you're going to die today? " She shook her head. "You're not going to die today. You're not going to die for some time to come." 

Unella heard a sound behind the Queen, and saw an elderly man step forward, a wooden box in his hands, which he placed flat on the table. "This is Mord. He's forgotten more about inflicting pain than you and I will ever know." Mord opened the case, removing a wedge, and a pair of pliers. "Teeth?" asked Margaery. Mord shrugged, "Seems like a good place to start." "Teeth it is then." She started to walk towards the door, as Mord bent over the nun with his instruments. "Shame, shame on the sinner" she called out merrily, as she stepped through the door. The door slammed shut, and Unella started to scream, as Mord set to work. 

The King heard the explosion. He had been kept prisoner in his own chambers, for most of the morning, yet Clegane would give him no explanation. He heard the man's phone ping, and saw him glance at the message. Then, Clegane unlocked the door, and left with his two officers. Mystified, the King could only wait for information, until Burrell entered the room, and told him what had happened. He struggled to comprehend. It was all true. The woman he had loved was a mass murderer, who had indeed slaughtered his family, along with hundreds of innocents. He was married to a monster, and his subjects would think that he was a monster. He took off his circlet, and carefully placed it on a table. He then stepped up on to his bedroom's window sill, and opened the window wide. He did not hesitate, but stepped out into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gelignite is an extremely powerful explosive, used for mining and quarrying, and demolishing buildings. TATP is a very volatile primary explosive, favoured by terrorists, among others.


	16. Nemesis

Months later, Margaery Tyrell had never been happier. Most of the United Kingdom's governing class had died in the explosion at the Houses of Parliament. It had proved quite straightforward to seize power with backing from supporters in the Roman Catholic Church, the Womens' Equality Party, and the Metropolitan Police. A strange political coalition, to be sure, but one that was united in her support. And of course, there were rich rewards available to those who demonstrated their zeal for the Queen. Death squads, under the control of Daenerys, Bronn, and Mord, had liquidated many of her enemies who had avoided the blast. Arya Stark remained at large, kept in protective custody by the French security services, but she was of little account. As Regent for Myrcella, she had proclaimed a state of emergency, under the terms of the Civil Contingencies Act, and had appointed Qyburn as Prime Minister of a technocratic cabinet. The US and Russian Presidents had sent thousands of soldiers, to bolster her regime. She had promised to call fresh elections as soon as possible, but this was one promise she had no intention of honouring. Instead, she busied herself by putting her enemies to death in a variety of amusing and imaginative ways. Sometimes she would preside over the executions herself, from the Balcony of Buckingham Palace, acknowledging the cheers of her supporters, as the grisly work was carried out in front of them. Tens of thousands of people had been interned in special camps, known as Rehabilitation Units, up and down the land, awaiting judgement.

This had not come without cost. Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the European Union had all broken off diplomatic relations with the United Kingdom, and imposed economic sanctions, appalled by her actions. Qyburn had repeatedly warned her of the danger of alienating foreign nations, but she had pulled off a major diplomatic coup of her own. Two days previously, she had signed the Treaty of London, along with the Presidents of the United States and Russia, the Foreign Ministers of Turkey, Belarus, Saudi Arabia, and Uzbekistan, and the Papal Nuncio. Under the terms of the treaty, the eight governments had formed a military and political alliance, committed to opposing liberalism, secularism, and socialism in all of their forms. Likewise they had pledged to defend each other against external attack and internal enemies. A secret protocol committed them to working to eradicate democracy worldwide. A huge US loan had been agreed, in order to stabilise the British economy. The Holy Alliance, as it was nicknamed, looked set to dominate international affairs. 

As well as being made Prime Minister, Qyburn had received an Earldom, and the property of the Starks and other dead aristocrats. Peerages had been awarded to Clegane and Daenerys. The three hags had been made Dames of the Order of the Bath, Mord a knight, and Bronn a baronet. Other awards had been showered on allies and supporters. Even Burrell had been made an Officer of the British Empire. He had shed tears of gratitude when the Queen pinned the award to him. The confiscation of the property of condemned traitors had enabled her to reward her supporters lavishly. What, after all, was the purpose of ruling if one could not reward supporters and punish enemies. Nor had she neglected her own interests. After making substantial gifts to her father Mace, and her brother Loras, the remainder of the Crown Estate had been transferred into her personal ownership, along with the private property of the Windsors. Her personal wealth could now be counted at over ten billion pounds. Yes, it was good to the Queen, if only Queen Regent. It would be fifteen years before Myrcella ascended the throne in her own right. She fully intended to become the world's richest person in that time. 

She entered the Cabinet Room in the Palace, at 10 a.m. Qyburn and her ministers were already waiting, and she opened proceedings. 

"Good Morning. I trust that you have all had the chance to read the briefing on the situation in the Rehabilitation Units. Currently, the detainees number two hundred thousand men, and one hundred and thirty thousand women. Broadly, they can be divided into three categories; subversives, numbering one hundred and fifty thousand, the anti-social, numbering one hundred thousand, and the feeble and mentally unfit, numbering eighty thousand. Notwithstanding the US loan, the economy has been hard hit by foreign sanctions. We are therefore left in the position of having to feed, house, and clothe three hundred and thirty thousand people, who can reasonably be described as "useless mouths". What, therefore, are we to do with them, especially as Lord Clegane's zeal at identifying and apprehending traitors means that the numbers can only increase. And, here I think, we should pause to thank Lord Clegane for his excellent work over these past months". The ministers politely applauded Clegane who bowed in response. 

"Your Majesty" interjected Qyburn "I have studied your briefing with great interest. If I understand correctly, you propose that the detainees should be set to work building roads, mining, quarrying, and disposing of nuclear waste. By my calculations, fewer than ten per cent of them are manual workers. The vast majority of them have never held anything heavier than a ruler. What exactly does your Majesty think will happen to them? Again, by my calculations, more than half of these workers will have perished within twelve months. With respect, this proposal does not succeed." 

"Regrettably, there will be wastage. But I'm afraid that each detainee who is fed and sheltered means one loyal citizen who must go short. Such is the terrifying equation of power. At least a great number of them will now be paying, through their labour, for the hospitality which they currently receive at public expense. And, as I said, I expect there to be significant replacements. 

"If I may again interject, your Majesty" replied Qyburn, "You have already assured the foreign and domestic press that no harm will come to the detainees". 

And, I shall continue to do so" she replied. 

Qyburn looked thoughtful. "Yes, I see, you will continue to assure the world that no harm will come to the detainees." 

"Good. I trust that I can count on your full support, my Lord." 

"I shall not oppose you on this." 

"Oh, I'm looking for more than that. Truly, I am somewhat surprised by your concern. Hitherto, you have shown commendable zeal in disposing of our enemies. Yet you object to my making them work for their board and lodging, and that somehow makes you the most upright of men. I find that........truly remarkable. I shall expect you to make this a priority, or I shall find a Prime Minister who is prepared to do so." 

"Of course, your Majesty. I serve and obey." The discussion continued along technical lines, before the ministers reached unanimous agreement with their Queen. As they damn well should do, she thought. I made them and I can break them." She left the meeting still put out. Qyburn's reluctance had been obvious. Really, he had been invaluable to her, from the first time they met, but perhaps his usefulness had now come to an end.

Later that day, she hosted a dinner at Buckingham Palace, for the signatories to the Treaty of London. The Russian President, seated on her left, was charm personified. The US President less so, orange-haired shit-stain that he was. He questioned her in detail about her sex life, and had extremely wandering hands. President Pussy Grabber indeed! It was a major relief for her, when he left the dinner early, to go to bed. Now she could relax. Glancing round the room, she spotted a portrait of her late sister-in-law, Sansa Stark, Duchess of Clarence. 

_Dear sweet sister in law, you played the game of thrones well, I grant you. You knew me for what I really am. Murderer, traitor, usurper, and you nearly caught me. But, when all is said and done, there is only one thing that matters. I won."_

__As it turned out, she was wrong about that._ _

__A few days later, she was working in her study with Lady Daenerys, while sipping on sherry. It was a beautiful day. Spring was bursting forth. The Sun shone brightly, although it remained cool. She had a large pile of death warrants to work her way through, and this was just the sort of work she liked. She enjoyed giving the occasional reprieve, and hearing grovelling protestations of gratitude from the condemned criminal and their family members. At last, she completed her work, and realised it was time for lunch. She got up and immediately felt her head spin. She sat down heavily in an armchair, and felt a cold sweat on her forehead. He felt an awful, cold, wrongness creeping up from the pit of her stomach._ _

__"Fetch a doctor at once" she snapped at Daenerys._ _

__"I could do, your Majesty, but there would be no point."_ _

__"What do you mean, I'm ill."_ _

__"Yes, but you would be dead by the time a doctor arrived."_ _

__It was hard to focus on the other woman as her vision swam. She heard her voice booming, as if from a distance, as she demanded "What are you talking about?"_ _

__"Tears of Lys, your Majesty, in your sherry. I regret to say that your last moments will be painful, but the pain will be brief. It will be best for you, if you do not struggle."_ _

__"Why?" she gasped._ _

__"Lord Qyburn sees you as a liability. He had such high hopes of you, and he gave you one chance after another. He understands that a certain amount of cruelty is necessary in a ruler, but you would never stop. Working hundreds of thousands of men and women to death? I'm afraid it just won't do, it won't do at all."_ _

__"You were my friend. I made you a Baroness. "_ _

__"You aren't the only one of us who's a gifted liar, your Majesty. I knew you were a toad from the beginning, but I knew you were destined to rise. I rose with you. "_ _

__Daenerys bent forward. "If it's any consolation to you, we'll do all we can to ensure your daughter turns out a better person than you are. Admittedly, that's like being drier than water. Goodbye your Majesty. " The Queen opened her mouth to scream for her guards, only to spew blood down her chest. "Go to hell" she managed to mutter. "After you, your Majesty, after you, I think."_ _

__Daenerys turned on her heel, as Margaery began to convulse._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Civil Contingencies Act 2004, gives the government immense powers to declare an emergency.
> 
> 2\. The Crown Estate is worth £14 bn. It was surrendered to the government by George III, in return for the government paying the civil list and funding the armed forces.
> 
> 3\. As I said, beware the cute ones.


End file.
